


The Light that Pierces through the Shadow

by TheStargazer



Series: Tales of Middle Earth [3]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Era, F/M, Gen, Other, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2018-12-26 09:49:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 41
Words: 123,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12056433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStargazer/pseuds/TheStargazer
Summary: For Faramir and Éowyn, it seems that bliss is finally upon them. Not only have they received official word that Éomer has consented, but the host is now returning. They will get to see their beloved Hobbits and family again, and celebrate the joy of the moment. But shadows do not surrender hearts easily. Faramir is haunted by the reality of taking up his father's title, Éowyn is haunted by the shame of abandoning her people and Lord Aragorn's scorn and pity, and Aragorn is haunted by the mistakes of his selfishness that nearly cost someone their life. All they need to remember is that healing is best undertaken with an open heart, and in the hands of those they trust. Will they find their solace and their forgiveness amongst the frenzy of the coming new age?Time will tell.[Note]: This follows the events ofHealing the ShieldmaidenandFour Lettersin myTales of Middle
EarthSeries.Tolkien's stories and characters do not belong to me.





	1. Faramir 1

Faramir was out of breath, but he was still running as fast as his feet could propel him. He did not care that people were staring at him. The piece of paper was clenched so tightly in his hand that his knuckles were white. He made it to the gate to the sixth level, watching the guardsmen open it for him, worried looks upon their faces. But his haste was for the joy that was going to break through his heart. He needed to see her right now, and tell her what was on that marvelous piece of paper.

> To: Faramir, son of Denethor, House of Húrin, Steward of Gondor,
> 
> I hereby give my consent for you to marry the Lady Éowyn of the House of Eorl, Shieldmaiden and Princess of Rohan. I look forward to getting to know the man who has stolen the heart of my beloved sister, the most precious jewel of Rohan.
> 
> Yours,   
>  Éomer  
>  King of Rohan

Upon reading the letter, Faramir had abandoned all other correspondence and ran to the House of Healing to seek out his _ fiancée _ . It was unbecoming of a Steward, but he couldn’t help it. He steadied himself to a trot when he was within sight of the House. When Éowyn met his eyes, she knew. She finished with her patient and dismissed herself. She washed her hands in the special healer’s solution before launching herself into his arms, pulling herself to him so forcefully that she was lifted off the ground.

“I knew. I told you.” Éowyn read the letter in Faramir’s hand. She then turned into him and kissed him. He was kissing his soon-to-be wife.

Éowyn turned back to the House of Healing, placed a kiss on her fingers then touched them to Faramir’s lips, striding back in to have a quick word with the Warden. Faramir saw Éowyn smile and curtsy. When she smiled, all the rest of Faramir’s world fell out of focus. As she made her way back to him, Faramir felt his heartbeat quicken. This woman, beyond beautiful, beyond kind, beyond brave, was his.

“Given the happy news, the Warden has released me for the day.” Éowyn took Faramir’s outstretched arm. Could he also take the day? No, not today. But he would make sure the afternoon was for just the two of them.

“I must return to my office, but the afternoon is our’s,” Faramir looked down at Éowyn. He longed to shirk his responsibility and show his  _ soon-to-be-wife _ the city, but his duties as Steward were not over.

“Will my presence be a bother?” Éowyn was thoughtful.

“I fear that your presence will always be a distraction,” Faramir smiled widely, “But today, I cannot think of a more welcome distraction than you.”

Faramir winked, and snuck a kiss onto Éowyn’s cheek.

“I fear we will always find ourselves distracted,” Éowyn chortled, “But I would still not have my presence be a hindrance to the work you must do.”

“I reckon I am sufficiently skilled to find a way to get through my work with you in the Steward’s office.” Faramir gripped her hand more tightly. He was not completely sure this was true, especially not today, but if his choice was to be in Éowyn’s presence or nay, he would always choose the former,  _ especially today _ .

Faramir always felt the eyes of the city upon them when they walked together. Curious stares and whispers had quickly been replaced with smiles and waves. Their beloved Steward was not just marrying the Princess of Rohan, he was marrying the very Shieldmaiden who had ended the Witch-King. The dark menace of their nightmares that had tormented their every breath. Gondorians revered the White Lady of Rohan, and were overjoyed that she would be theirs, united with them through the Steward’s love. That she had shown herself to have skilled healer’s hands as well? A marvel! She was celebrated amongst them with the same excitement as their long-awaited King.

Faramir smiled as he saw their eyes, and was overjoyed to find that she was accepted and revered. They loved her nearly as much as he did. Though Faramir would never allow anything to happen to question Éowyn’s honor, he found that the normal level for formality that would be expected of a match like theirs was not expected of him, because he and Éowyn were the adopted son and daughter of the people. Open affection with Éowyn was met with smiles even from the stodgiest of the nobility, and both the betrothed took advantage. Theirs was a match of love, and it was important that they showed all those around them. The shadow was lifted from the hearts of all in Gondor, and it was the moment to celebrate.

As they approached his office, Faramir asked Éowyn to close her eyes and led her in. He had been waiting to get the entire thing copied and translated for her; his next gift to his love, but he could no longer contain his excitement over this particular surprise. Sharing a love of books with her? That was as much a gift for him as it was for her.

Even when he was broken-hearted, thinking she would run back to Lord Aragorn, he could not stop himself from giving her books. Faramir remembered hoping desperately that his gut had been right, that she was his all along. He had given into his own self-doubt, hiding from her to avoid facing the possibility of her rejection, and yet every moment he had been without her, she consumed his thoughts. Those few days without her were foolish days, ones he still regretted. That this had not ruined his chances with Éowyn felt a miracle, and represented a mistake he would never make again. He could trust her with his heart, even when opening it fully seemed the most painful thing in the world.

“Hold out your hand,” Éowyn left her eyes closed and held out her hands. Faramir sniffled. This woman, stalked and assaulted by a monstrosity of a man since she had blossomed into a woman, trusted him completely.

Faramir deliberately made noise with his feet, and grabbed the book.  The Elven Arts of Healing , a book that Mithrandir had given him by special commission by the Lord Elrond himself. He placed it in Éowyn’s hand, then leaned in to kiss her brow.

“Open them.” Faramir could not keep the lovelorn grin from his face.

Éowyn looked down, saw the title of the book, then leaned toward Faramir, pulling his head to her’s with her free hand, and kissing him with the passion that weakened his knees.

“Thank you.” Éowyn leaned her head against his, touching their foreheads to one another, “I fear I will now need to take seriously my lessons in Sindarin.”

“I shall teach you.” Faramir closed his eyes, taking in her intoxicating lavender smell, “Consider it a trade for helping me learn Rohirric. I should want to know what you and your brother say about me.”

“Then we will whisper all the more softly!” Éowyn laughed, then kissed him again, combing her fingers through his hair. It drove him crazy when she did that, but now he really did need to get to work. Gently pushing away from her, he turned both their attentions to the book in her hand.

“I’ve translated the first chapter of the book for you - you can find it in the inset. I hope I’ve provided enough for you while I get this last work done,” Faramir followed Éowyn’s keen eyes to her book, “Consider it lesson #1 in Sindarin.”

Faramir’s resolve broke, and he went in for another kiss.

“Gi melín, Éowyn.” Faramir whispered for her ears only, “I love you in Sindarin. Lesson #2.”

“Gi melín, Faramir, min elskede.” Éowyn softly stroked Faramir’s jawline, kissed him one more time, then retreated with her book to the leather loveseat in the corner of the Steward’s office.

Faramir seated himself in the stiff wooden chair at the desk. A chair that his father had chosen, and one that did not suit him. Sort of like the title of Steward. Darkness trickled into his mind. But when he looked over at Éowyn, her legs folded below her, the book and his translations in her hand, he knew that he would only ever need to think on her and he would be delivered back to the light.

The hours melted away as Faramir stamped the Steward’s ring on the last piece of paper sitting on his desk. One last urgent request, one last waxen stamp and he was done. He looked over at the golden lady lounging in his loveseat, stirring only occasionally to flip pages of the book he had given her. She really did look like she emitted her own light.

“Done! I am your’s.” Faramir took the blasted ring off of his hand and threw it onto the desk. Éowyn looked up from her book, and closed it, sliding gracefully off of the loveseat. Faramir wondered even dare to blink for fear of missing the sight of her walking toward him.

“What shall we do with the rest of our day then?” Éowyn’s arms were around him.

Faramir breathed in the lavender in her hair, and grabbed a lock of it, rubbing its silky strands between his fingers. Then he turned to her, drowning in her those deep blue eyes she had. He wanted to lean in and spend the day kissing her and touching her. But no, he also wanted to show her his city.

“Let us start on the first level and work our way up,” Faramir said, though it was between kisses, “By the time we make it back to the Citadel, we may be able to see the dust cloud of the returning host against the sunset.”

Faramir felt Éowyn stiffen at this.

“Tell me your sorrows min elskede,” Faramir quickly said.

“Your Rohirric is getting better,” Éowyn smiled at him, then sighed, “The host is returning, and I wonder if I will then wake from this wonderful dream. Destined for my cage in Edoras. I’ve not looked upon Aragorn since he nearly destroyed me, so to see him marching to claim this city, I fear that it will break my heart again.”

“I fear the opposite. That he will look upon you, seeing the light you radiate from your compassion and your courage, and would feel the shame of ever looking down at you,” Faramir touched his nose to Éowyn’s, he then chuckled, “But I’m more worried that Éomer will jump from his horse and challenge me to a duel.”

Éowyn laughed, and it was big and bright. Little did she know that Faramir had been sparring every night with Beregond to regain his lost strength and skill, solely to ensure that if such a thing were to come to pass, he would not embarrass himself with his future brother-in-law.

“You should stop sparring with Beregond at every unclaimed moment, so that your bruises heal.” Éowyn smiled. Of course she knew. As if to emphasize her point, she squeezed Faramir’s forearm, sending a shock of pain through his nerves. “And if Éomer does anything of the sort, certain Hobbits and I have already made plans to disrupt such an event until my brother has come to his senses.”

“What have you three planned?” Faramir asked.

“You will only see should Éomer be foolish enough to try to duel you.” Éowyn’s eyes twinkled with mischief. God Faramir wanted to kiss her. “And if you decide to exercise your muscles again tonight, find me in the morning. I will have a soothing salve mixed for you.”

“Will my favorite healer apply it herself?” Faramir’s eyes flickered

“Perhaps, I shall see if Ioreth is busy.” Éowyn’s grin lit the room.

The tension had built too much, there was too much electricity in the room. Faramir leaned in and found Éowyn’s mouth, kissing her greedily, which she returned in kind. Her hand was in his hair again, god he loved that. Yes, just kissing the rest of the afternoon, that was a fine choice. But then Éowyn pulled back, and there was just the faintest vapor of doubt still in her eyes.

“This is not a dream. I will not wake up tomorrow and find I am still a prisoner in my cage,” Éowyn’s voice held the slightest bit of fear.

Faramir pulled her into a hug, “This is not a dream min elskede. The host will ride in, and to greet them will be the Steward and the Princess of Rohan, his beloved fiancée, holding hands under the sunlight, for all the world to see. Even if it means the King of Rohan will duel the Steward.”

Éowyn laughed with a joy that Faramir had only rarely been able to draw out of her. When she steadied herself, her eyes returned to his, thoughtful and full of love.

“I should like a tour of the whole city today. As long as we make it back to watch the sunset in the gardens,” said Éowyn, still stroking her fingers through Faramir’s hair.

“Then it shall be so,” Faramir placed a kiss upon Éowyn’s hand, and they set out toward the first level of Minas Tirith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "min elskede" is Norwegian for "my beloved", and given Rohirric's nordic roots and connections, seemed a fitting Rohirric term of endearment.


	2. Éomer 1

It had taken longer than Éomer had expected to regroup and ready the host for their trip to Minas Tirith. The battle healers had wanted to wait until those with grievous injuries were capable of traveling. Minas Tirith’s famed House of Healing was waiting for them, as was his sister. It had been just over a day since Éomer had sent his reply to the Steward, accepting the man’s suit. Word had spread through the host of this momentous match, and Éomer had found himself being clapped on the back by nearly everyone. New King of Rohan, and already he’d secured a lifelong alliance with Gondor through his valiant Shieldmaiden sister. It seemed that Éowyn was held in higher esteem by the Gondorian soldiers than even her own brethren.  _ Fitting _ , Éomer mused. Gondor saw Éowyn as she was, the valiant and the brave. Not Éowyn of Edoras, the hopeless nursemaid and hunted maiden. Éomer sniffed. It was time for him to see Éowyn as those in Gondor did. As his squire Merry did.

On the day before the host marched to Osgiliath, Merry and Pippin had treated the soldiers to Merry’s rendition of “Éowyn Wraithbane, the Brave Shieldmaiden”, with Pippin playing the flute along with Merry’s telling. There were hoots, and hollers, and gasps, and the roar that had started from the soldiers of Gondor was echoed by the soldiers in Rohan in turn, and they sang the song of Éowyn. Only two had been silent in the mess tent that night, himself and Lord Aragorn. When he looked at his fellow King, he had wondered at the haunted look in his eyes.

Even before the engagement had been made public, word had percolated through the host at the love of the Steward and the Shieldmaiden; finding each other in the House of Healing. The Gondorians had hailed the match as nothing short of wondrous. Éowyn, the slayer of Fear itself, through the love of the Steward, was now one of their own. The greatest of gifts. And Éomer in turn was hailed as part of Gondor, egged on by Prince Imrahil. He had given away his sister and in so doing, gained an entire country of brethren. But he could not yet feel the joy of it, for the sense of loss over his sister was too fresh.

As Éomer had settled down for camp, Imrahil had made his way to his side by the fire.

“I see your sadness Éomer. Can you tell me what troubles you? For the entire world is leaping for joy,” Imrahil put his hand upon Éomer’s shoulder. He was as fatherly as Théoden had been.

“There is a lot I have yet to come to terms with. I can no longer expect my sister to help me lead our people,” Éomer felt sheepish admitting this, “But also all the ways I failed her. I could not protect her, and I did not see all of her, and it is a shame that I will carry with me forever. I will never be able to protect her again.”

“To the first, I’ve no doubt that if you have need of her, she will be there for you. And now you have more, you have the capable Steward of Gondor as kin, who will drop everything to help his brother-in-law rule, and you now have me, an uncle-in-law at least, and perhaps more,” Imrahil squeezed Éomer’s shoulder, “And to the second, the mightiest of us have made the mistake of underestimating those who we relegate to certain roles. Éowyn was never a maid in a tower, needing your protection. She was a person, high and wise, trapped in the role of a woman from which she could not escape. Her own valor and bravery broke us away from our foolish blindness. She has given us a chance to learn from our mistake, and she found a man wise enough to have seen the whole of her from the moment he laid eyes upon her.”

Éomer sighed. Imrahil was right. He wanted to hurry the host, to ride ahead of them and seek Éowyn out. He wanted to spend the days they missed talking about all the mistakes he had made. He wanted her to forgive him. And he wanted to meet Faramir, to take the measure of a man wiser than he, to have immediately recognized Éowyn for everything she was.

“One more day, and we ride into Minas Tirith. What I wouldn’t give to abandon this host and gallop through the night to see my sister,” Éomer looked over the plains, wishing he could see the White City.

“Yet you are now King, and must lead your people,” Imrahil smiled, “One more day Éomer. One more day is all we must bear before being reunited with our loved ones. I’ve been told that my children save for Elphir are making their way to the White City to greet us.”

Éomer raised an eyebrow, and saw the gleam in Imrahil’s eye.  _ Lothíriel. _ Éomer could feel his cheeks redden. Wasn’t one marriage enough for now? Éomer coughed. A change of subject was exactly what they needed.

“I noticed that the Lord Aragorn did not smile at Merry’s telling of the Brave Shieldmaiden, what do you think that means?” it was something small, but it had been nagging at the corner of Éomer’s thoughts since he saw Aragorn’s haunted look.

“I am not sure,” Imrahil looked at Éomer, and Éomer sensed that his words had triggered some deep contemplation on the part of the prince, “Not sure at all...”

Éomer frowned. Could this have to do with Éowyn’s abandoned love? What had happened between those two? He was sure that his sister loved Faramir. Her letter had cut to his heart, and he remembered Aragorn’s words in the room as he drew Éowyn back from shadow: ‘too weak for the foe she was up against.’ The words of a man who saw a woman, not the words of a King who saw a soldier whose courage was so great she slew Fear itself. ‘No man has ever treated me as an equal’. There it was. The failing of Kings.

“Éowyn deserves to be loved as a partner, not as a maid,” Éomer let his reflection escape his lips, “And she needed someone who knew her pain.”

Imrahil nodded solemnly, “It seems as if your sister and my nephew were destined to find one another.”

Imrahil sat down next to Éomer, and both looked into the fire in companionable silence. Tomorrow he would see his sister. Tomorrow he would meet his new brother-in-law. Tomorrow, every way that the world had changed and shifted under his feet would become real. But for tonight, there was a fire, and there was a friend.


	3. Aragorn 1

‘I beg thee’ had been echoing in his mind since word had reached him that Éowyn, Princess of Rohan, was betrothed to Faramir, Captain of the Ithilien Rangers and Steward of Gondor. Even from their first meeting, Éowyn’s pain had cut so deeply into him that he had to turn away from her, keep her distant. He had been waiting near 70 years for Arwen, single-minded in his quest to be worthy of her. To earn Arwen, he would become King. So he overlooked the captivating niece of King Théoden, pretended he could not see her pain, and that she was no more than a lovelorn maid, and put on a mask of indifference.

Did it matter? No, he would become King. The men around him looked at him with reverence, and he had earned allies who would see his ascendency. He did not know, but he had to hope that his love would come to him. All he had done had earned him a queen whose beauty was beyond Middle Earth, whose love and wisdom had kept him strong even through the most harrowing of his trials. A queen who sacrificed her immortality for him. No love could be considered higher. And the people would love him, for he was their deliverance. And they would love Arwen, his queen. But as he thought upon it, he could feel the bile rise in the back of his throat. There had been the moment of doubt. Doubt in his resolve, doubt that his quest should end with him deserving the prize of Arwen’s hand. Because he saw Éowyn’s pain. And he chose to do nothing.

As Merry told his tale, the entire host hooted and hollered, singing the praises of Éowyn. He looked around the room and saw pride and reverence on every soldier’s face, save for Éomer’s. And Éomer had recognized his own haunted expression, two Kings amongst the fold unable to celebrate one of the greatest of the tales of the War of the Ring. Éowyn, who laughed in the face of Fear to protect her uncle and to rally her people. He had called her weak, a woman who eschewed all to ride to her death to heal her broken heart. A heart he was so sure was broken for him. The truth of it shamed him, for it was not in his inability to return her affection that had broken her, it was his inability to return her respect.

Very few had ever practiced the art of calling those from the shadow, and so the intimate connection made between the healer and the afflicted was not well known. Aragorn had to put his own will and energy into those he drew from the shadow. He felt what they felt all the way to the roots of their despair and experienced the darkest of their secrets as if they were his own. Merry had been the easiest, for Hobbits seemed to be possessed by an inner lightness and joy that made walking back from the shadow with them nearly effortless, even in spite of the terror of being tied to an Uruk’s back, on his way to be tortured, fading in out out of consciousness. When he called Faramir forth, he could feel his sorrow as the neglected second child, for the fading away of his mother, the indifference of his father and the death of his brother. Aragorn could feel the kindling of fire in the shadows, knowing its meaning, and hoped it would stay in Faramir’s periphery too. But what Aragorn remembered most in walking through Faramir’s shadow dreams were his unquenchable hope and love for his people, and a will nearly as resistant to the shadow as Aragorn’s own. In those moments walking with Faramir back toward the light, Aragorn knew he would love the young Steward, for his hope and for his love.

But Éowyn. Aragorn would never forget all that he had felt when he was inside Éowyn’s mind, willing her to step away from the brink. Her sorrow had nearly torn him apart. Forgotten by her mother, hunted and nearly taken by Wormtongue, and ignored by him. For his indifference was the final blow, accepting that she was and would only ever be a woman, caged by her birth and body, unescapable. And yet, there were still embers of hope and defiance in her heart, deep and encased in the stone she used to protect herself from her overwhelming despair. Aragorn let go of her the moment he knew she would not succumb, and fled the room to try to collect himself, willing the sobs that were constricting his throat back down. If he had not then drawn Merry back, in all his wonderful warmth, Aragorn might have not rebounded from the sorrow of Éowyn’s mind. He was unsure that he would ever be wholly recovered from the experience.

He remembered the nausea that came with the memory of Gríma’s hands on Éowyn’s neck. Of her slow sinking into despair over her inability to save her uncle, of her decision then that death was more honorable than humiliation. If only he had known when he met her… when she had asked to ride forth with him... he was not sure what he would have done. His indifference was more about protecting himself and the purity of his love for Arwen than about protecting or even helping Éowyn. He had not even trusted her enough to tell her of his betrothal. He had failed her. And in his failure, he had almost caused her doom.

When he watched as all those around him sang her tale, she who laughed in the face of Fear, he felt shame. He had denied this wondrous Shieldmaiden her glory and valor, but more, her person. He’d sought Merry out to compliment him on his telling of the tale, but Merry had withdrawn from him into a shell of politeness. And Aragorn could swear he could feel the Hobbit’s disappointment in him. More than anything, the Hobbit’s reluctance to speak freely had confirmed for Aragorn that the grievous hurt he had done to Éowyn was still a cause for her despair, even after having been awakened and brought away from the shadow.

At night, he tried to still his mind and drift to sleep, but he would hear muffled footsteps echo outside her bedchamber. He’d see her dagger lying on her pillow, gripped so tightly in her hand that her fingers were stiff, listening to the tinkling of keys in her door. He would feel the manic joy pour out of her when she realized that she had been saved. He’d live her confusion and despair that even when she’d been freed from Gríma, she was still but a woman to be forever relegated to a cage. He’d relive lying awake at night near a sleeping Hobbit, desperately worried that someone would see through Dernhelm’s disguise. And finally, he experienced her fear of the Nazgûl, that had been overpowered by her compassion and love - death being a better fate than a woman’s cage.

Thinking of his Evenstar, Aragorn often could will himself to sleep in spite of those visions, but his dreams were back in the black place of shadows, living Éowyn’s memories and begging her to turn to him and break herself away. He had thought that once the darkness was defeated, his nightly possession by Éowyn’s deepest despairs would subside, but they did not. He both craved seeing her again and feared it. For his shame was so deep he wondered if he could face her, but face her he must, if only to give her what she deserved: his respect and his compassion, and perhaps,  _ hopefully _ , in return, he would earn her forgiveness.

Miraculously, he had been granted a reprieve. A man far wiser than he had healed Éowyn. Faramir had opened her heart and waded into her despair and both had come out stronger for it. Kindred sorrow had evolved naturally into something more, something deeper. A love between equals. Aragorn tried to feel the joy of that truth, to understand how deep and deserving such a thing as their love was. But Éowyn’s healing brought him only shame. Shame that he himself had almost robbed her of her chance to be lifted from her pain and humiliation. He wondered if Éowyn would ever forgive him. Then ice ran through his veins. He wondered if Merry would ever forgive him, or Éomer, or Faramir, for the hurt he had brought upon their beloved lady.

Could he ever tell these three of all he knew, that he’d walked their paths of despair, and dreamt their shadow dreams? It was an invasion into their minds, sharing of secrets they had not meant for any others, and there they were, in his mind too. Shared without the consent of their owners. Haunts in Aragorn’s mind, but yet not his own. He could bear the lightness of Merry, and the hope of Faramir, but the despair and compassion of Éowyn, could he bear that too? When he saw himself deal the final blow of her despair? Perhaps this was the price one paid to give that gift of healing, why it was a practice meant only for the Kings of the West, because one needed the strength of soul to bear the burdens of those that one healed. And perhaps this intimate connection was also meant to stay a secret, so those burdens were not compounded on the despairing.

Aragorn looked to the south, willing his eyes to see the White City, to be made Minas Anor anew. Still too far away. He thought of the Steward awaiting their coming, hand in hand with the golden haired Princess of Rohan whose sorrow was so deep it nearly drowned a King. Tomorrow, he would see all for himself. A suitor coming to woo the great city, and before him he would look into the face of his shame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd been pondering for a long time how to redeem Aragorn for the way he treated Éowyn, and something hit me. What happens when someone heals with athelas? Why can only the strongest of will heal those suffering under the shadow?
> 
> What if to pull one out of a shadow, you must walk with them through the paths of their deepest despairs? That is a good reason only the strongest of wills (Kings of Númenor of Elrond) are the only ones who attempt it. It would also explain why Aragorn RAN out the door before Éowyn opened her eyes. Everything he said about her happened before he healed her, so it actually fits with the story. Mansplaining becomes understanding and empathy, and ultimately, shame.


	4. Éowyn 1

Éowyn awoke in the morning in the apartment she’d moved to when they declared her healed. The quarters were warm and bright, with a window that faced to the east. Some part of Éowyn missed the intimacy of her chamber in the House of Healing, but she understood the need for her move. Today they would be welcoming the triumphant host into the city, and the healers had to be ready for the new wounded. This apartment had been offered to her by the Ruling Steward of Gondor. Her  _ betrothed _ , her  _ elskede _ . Éowyn rose from bed with the first light of the sun, as she usually did, and chose a clean gown. White. She washed her hands, plaited her hair, and placed her apprentice cap upon her head. When Éowyn looked at herself in the mirror, she could not help but smile. Shieldmaiden of the Mark, now Healer of Gondor and Rohan; well, Healer’s apprentice, at least for now.

Éowyn opened the door of her bedroom and found a small note on the small dining table, bound with a small pile of papers, stacked neatly below it. Her smile broadened.

> Min elskede,
> 
> I took your advice and let my bruises heal, so I had idle time last night. I’ve translated the second and third chapters of  The Elven Arts of Healing for you. I know you want to learn Sindarin, but I would rather teach it to you through tales of love and valor than the rather dry entries of the healing arts. I hope you don’t mind.
> 
> I’ve been pulled into the office early this morning, in preparation for the returning host and our many revered guests, and so must miss your smile over breakfast. I hope you forgive me for this oversight by joining me for lunch in our glade.
> 
> Gi melín, Éowyn, my wife-to-be,  
> Faramir
> 
> She could see him, feverishly working on those Sindarin words late into the night. The first chapter of her book had summarized the Elven notion of the mortal body, and how to take measure of a mortal’s health. Éowyn could not resist talking with Faramir about it as they toured the city together the previous day. The first level bore the brunt of the fight, but already the seedlings of rebuilding could be seen in this most damaged part of the city. Markets had opened, and many had returned to begin cleaning and repairing their homes. Faramir had shown her the whole of it, his hand tightly grasping her’s as they stopped and talked with all who would request an audience. Éowyn had marveled at Faramir’s skill as the Steward. She knew he came to the title in the most tragic of ways, but she doubted that even his lordly father performed this duty as admirably.

Faramir still quieted at the mention of his title, especially when well-wishers found him and congratulated him. Most did not know of the whole of the demise of Lord Denethor, having assumed that he had perished at the hands of the enemy in the siege. Éowyn always moved closer to Faramir when she sensed that he was pondering those dark thoughts, willing him back to the light. It was also why Éowyn and Faramir tried to keep their evenings clear; so they could sit together and talk about anything and everything, healing each other’s sorrows in turn. Being declared healed had not meant they were whole, and so they sought each other out when a shadow invaded their hearts.

Yesterday though was not a day for sorrow. It was the day that they knew their marriage was a certainty. It was the day that her brother had finally said yes. She scoffed at needing such permission, yet she knew that she wouldn’t marry someone if the man did not have her brother’s blessing. Éomer would only say no if he had some grave reservation about the man, and Éomer’s judgment of people’s character was unparalleled. There would be no reservations about Faramir. Every moment she was with him only increased her certainty of her love. Every touch, every kiss, every laugh, every tale, every shared sorrow, she loved him. He was the one.

Éowyn smiled at her note, and stuffed the new parchment into her satchel, then with a final glance around her living quarters, she opened the door to head to work.

“The White Lady of Rohan comes forth!” a familiar voice gave Éowyn a mild start, a guard was standing outside her door, dressed in the attire of the City Guard, but there was a small band of green and gold on his arm. The signet of Rohan. He was tall (though not as tall as Faramir), and there were the slightest signs of scars upon his wrists. Éowyn looked into his eyes, and smiled widely.

“Beregil! You look the image of health,” Éowyn exclaimed, taking in her healed charge, “What brings you to my doorstep this day?”

“I’ve been assigned to guard you by the Steward. It will be my pleasure to escort you to wherever you fancy,” Beregil bowed, and offered Éowyn his arm.

“While I am not certain I require an escort, I should be glad of your company!” Éowyn exclaimed, as she took his arm, and they began heading toward the House of Healing on the sixth level, “Have you heard from your family yet?”

Beregil’s eyes were alight as they set off, “My wife has written to me. She is on her way back to the city, from her mother’s. Stray bands of orcs had been giving travelers trouble, but the riders of Rohan have all but cleared them out, so the roads are finally safe for travel.”

“I am overjoyed to hear it!” Éowyn squeezed Beregil’s arm, “And how are your dreams?”

“The fits have lessened enough. I can now be awakened without fear of harming others with my thrashing, and I continue to think of you and my Captain when the shadow threatens me,” Beregil’s naked honesty continued to impress Éowyn, he leaned in to whisper in her ear, “Thank you for your part in my healing, and my heart swells with joy that you and Faramir have found your love.”

Éowyn squeezed Beregil’s arm, and they continued their transit to the House. Beregil spoke of the small quarters he had secured for the return of his family. He spoke of his admiration of the new Steward, and the infinite thanks he felt that Faramir had re-assigned him to such a duty, now that his fits kept him from ranging in Ithilien. Before Éowyn knew it, they were at the front door of the House of Healing.

“Thank you Beregil! I do not know what your new duties require of you, but perhaps before the new wounded arrive and I am in this House of Healing under the Warden’s supervision, you could make your way to a market and pick up some flowers for your wife,” Éowyn beamed, “I will see you no later than this afternoon, when my shift has ended.”

Beregil bowed to her, and smiled, “If my leave is granted by the Warden, so I shall. But if I do so, I ask that you stay in the House so I’ve not shirked my duty so early in my new assignment.”

Éowyn laughed, and promised she would remain in the House of Healing until his return, then turned and headed in.

“Good morning!” she beamed at the healers, heading to their table to share breakfast. She noticed that the food they were eating had improved.

“My dear, come come! You look a wonder,” Ioreth moved to give Éowyn a place to sit, “We’ve gotten word to expect 50 new wards, including some 15 who will require the utmost care. We’re preparing as we speak. Are you ready girl?”

“Yes, most assuredly Ioreth. Let me know where my hands will be most useful,” Éowyn looked on at the near-empty House, then silently counted the beds. There would be enough space, just barely.

“Until this afternoon, we mostly needs must prepare. I’ve also been told you’ll need to be down in the vanguard to greet the host, Princess that you are.” Ioreth winked.

“I imagine I will, but just because I will be asked to wear a circlet does not mean I cannot slip on an apprentice cap,” Éowyn countered, winking right back.

“I’ll put you down for an hour’s shift this evening, when we expect the injured to have made their way to the city. If we find we have more need of you, we shall ask. But I daresay that neither the Steward nor the King of Rohan would be pleased if we robbed them of your company.” Ioreth replied, and Éowyn knew she was right.

“Thank you for my hour this evening Ioreth. For now, just assign me where I am most needed.”

Ioreth set Éowyn to making poultice and soothing salves, to be ready. Then tasked her with making the beds of the great hall. A task Éowyn relished in doing, even as she could see the other healers whispering about the White Lady of Rohan making beds. She cared little, being useful brought her near as much joy as Faramir’s lips… perhaps not quite that much joy. And the work kept Éowyn’s mind from wandering too much into the afternoon. It would be a time of reunions. Seeing her brother for the first time since he marched forth, seeing Merry, and meeting Pippin, who saved Faramir’s life, and Prince Imrahil, who saved them both. But there were other reunions too - she would finally have to come face-to-face with Lord Aragorn, whom she saw last when he turned away from her in Meduseld. In thinking upon him, Éowyn could feel a shadow pass over her heart. She focused on her hands and her work to will it away.  _ I have Faramir. I will see my brother again, and Merry. Lord Aragorn is nothing to me. _ It was a lie, but it could subdue the shadow, for now, until she could share her sorrows with Faramir.

As if he had heard her plea, the Warden had called for her, “Lady? The Steward awaits you in the glade.”

Wiping sweat from her brow, poultice and soothing salves having been stacked, and near all the beds in the hall made, she nodded at the Warden. She washed her hands in the healer’s fountain before heading out the archway to the gardens, and saw the familiar sight of the raven haired Steward awaiting her presence in their glade. His body smiled when he saw her, and she walked directly into his arms, kissing him and tasting his mouth. She could already feel her heart lifting.  _ You will always be here when I need you. _

“You look absolutely fetching in your apprentice cap,” Faramir broke the kiss, “I fear I will never let another heal me.”

“That would be unwise, as I am merely an apprentice and not a master of the healing arts,” Éowyn kept her arms around Faramir’s shoulders, “...yet…”

“I hope it was alright to assign a guard to you,” Faramir looked anxious.

“Why would I consider that a problem? Sister to the King of Rohan and betrothed to the Steward of Gondor. Of course I would have a guard, even in times of peace,” Éowyn replied, “And Beregil and I are familiar, so you gave me both an escort and an excuse to check on my patient.”

“I’d prefer that your escort was always me,” Faramir frowned

“I imagine you have a guard now yourself, as you are the Steward,” Éowyn replied

“Yes. That is the case,” a shadow came into Faramir’s eyes

Éowyn stepped onto her tiptoes to kiss Faramir’s cheek, “Faramir, he is looking down on you and wishing he had done things differently.” Éowyn would not let him go, and looked into his eyes, “and even if he did not, your people love and honor you for  _ you _ , not because you inherited an office.”

The sadness did not melt from Faramir’s eyes, but at least the shadow passed. Éowyn leaned in closer, pushing her body onto his, and felt his breathing quicken, “And to me, whether your title was Steward or Ranger or Tramp, still I would love you and still I would want to be this close to you always.”

“If you keep this up, I will be a Tramp, as I will be unable to perform my duties, so distracted will I be,” Faramir groaned at their closeness, and pulled Éowyn in for another kiss; this time it was hungry. But something stalled Faramir’s reverie.

“Tell me your sorrows, min elskede,” even while her own shadow had abated, Faramir could still see its remnants in Éowyn’s eyes.

“You’ve come to me again when I needed you,” Éowyn sighed, “I know we must stand and face the host, and yet I feel such shame and anger, and I fear I will not be able to hide my pain when I see…  _ him. _ ”

Faramir pulled her close, and laid his lips on her brow.

“Just as I will never be able to win my father’s esteem, so may also be the case for you and the King.” Faramir spoke barely above a whisper, “But a very wise woman said that the opinion of one is not outweighed by the opinion of the many. And you are the hero of Gondor, so loved by the people that they rejoice that you stole the heart of their Steward. Do not dwell on his feelings of pity and scorn when you will always be more than what he saw of you. To your people, to  _ my _ people, to your friends, but especially to me, you are sublime, full of compassion and courage in equal measure. The moment you said you would be my wife is the happiest in my life.”

He had said exactly what she needed to hear, and she hugged him, their lips met again and his kiss drew the poison out of her heart. The day of their marriage could not come soon enough.

“Let us eat, and over lunch teach me a bit more Sindarin,” Éowyn whispered, nuzzling Faramir’s neck.

Faramir smiled widely, and released her. Then they sat on the glade and ate. Faramir whispered Sindarin phrases into Éowyn’s ear:  _ you light my life. I am now whole because of you. The Valar could not stop our love. Wife. Husband. I love you. _ Then suddenly, the food was gone and it was time to be parted again. Both went to the eastward wall, and saw the cloud of dust that announced that the host was on the move. Éowyn would see her brother that afternoon.

“How many hours yet?” Éowyn asked, holding Faramir’s hand

“Perhaps three, they move with more haste than I would have expected,” Faramir replied

“A lot of soldiers have loved ones waiting for them. There are a lot of happy reunions coming today,” Éowyn said

“And your’s?” Faramir asked

“Seeing Éomer will be nothing but joy. You will like him,” Éowyn looked at Faramir, she could tell he was anxious.

“I’ll make sure to bring my sword, just in case he tries to lob off my head for stealing his beloved sister,” Faramir laughed, but Éowyn sensed some seriousness there too.

“He will not do that. Even as we joke of a duel, my brother is a good man and a good King. Invite him for supper tonight. We can ask our Hobbits as well,” Éowyn replied.

“I will make arrangements, and I will also invite my uncle. He saved both of our lives, and wants to meet you desperately,” Faramir smiled.

Éowyn smiled, “that would be nice.”

Faramir gave Éowyn one final kiss, one of longing, “I must be off. The last of the preparations are being made. Should I be your escort to the gates?”

“Yes min elskede. I would like to go and meet our host hand-in-hand with you,” Éowyn touched Faramir’s cheek.

“Then I will see you in two and a half hours. I will come to your apartment.” Faramir kissed Éowyn’s fingers, and was off.

In the next hour, Éowyn finished making the beds she had been assigned, and was given leave by Ioreth and the Warden. Beregil was waiting for her.

“Are we off?” Beregil smiled, and Éowyn could see a small package in his hand, with flowers.

“To my quarters. I need to prepare to greet the host. Will you come for that as well Beregil?”

“Yes, my lady. I understand though that the Steward is your escort, so my only duty is only to ensure that you are both safe.”

Éowyn smiled, and nodded, “Then tell me another tale of your children.” and Éowyn walked with Beregil to her apartment. She waved goodbye and headed in, only to find that a lavender-infused bath had already been drawn for her,  _ always thoughtful Faramir. _


	5. Faramir 2

Faramir returned to his office, and looked at his desk. His ring sat in the middle of the mess, mocking him. Even with all the Steward’s work pressing upon him, his decision to see her had been a good one. The weight of the title had pressed upon his chest as he looked out and saw the dust cloud approaching. She had been there, in her apprentice cap, both the healer and the divine, waiting to heal his heart and draw away his worries. He had yet to tell her about the dream that was stalking his sleep. One of being paralyzed and burned. It had started as something foggy, but was becoming clearer each night as he fought it. Each day he was Ruling Steward, the fire burned hotter.

The coming of the King Elessar meant different things to the two of them. For Éowyn, the coming of the man held nothing but shame and anger, and Faramir wondered if he would ever truly be able to heal the wounds inflicted by Aragorn’s indifference. He hoped so. It had shaded his view of this wondrous man who healed him, and who would become their King. Faramir internally wondered how Aragorn had overlooked her, though he had his suspicions. Perhaps when he met Aragorn the man more would become clear.

Faramir sighed, and sat down. The chair didn’t fit him right, reminding him just how out of place he felt in that study. And the ring. That accursed ring. The ring his father had made countless serfs kiss. Faramir had lost count of the amount of times he had been forced to kiss his father’s ring; each and every time he assented to his father’s command, he’d bend down and kiss that outstretched hand. When he wore it, Faramir swore he could see the flames that engulfed his father rise up in its mithril, and he could feel its heat, burning him. So he only wore it when he was sitting at that desk, writing correspondence that needed the stamp of the Steward.

Éowyn always studied him curiously when he put it on, as if she could tell that its mere presence on his person sucked the joy from him. He would forever be grateful to her for placing her own hands on his as he stamped the three letters on the day his life changed: one to Éomer, one to Imrahil, and one to Merry. Her touch had inoculated the ring’s sting. Yes, he needed to tell her about his fire dreams. He would do so tonight in the Steward’s garden, before they supped with family. Hopefully Merry would join them too. Yes, he would tell them both, because it would lift his heart from the fiery shadow that his dreams were casting upon him.

Faramir willed himself to remember Éowyn’s hand on his as he stamped the last bits of correspondence. An official order to the scouts for healing herbs that had been running low. An assessment of the scoured lands and the time estimates for them to rebound. He’d paid special attention to Ithilien, feeling hope rise in him that he could settle there with Éowyn. His home would always now be where she dwelled. It had been his home as a Ranger, and he could already feel the stone of the city entombing him. The coming of the King was his blessing, for it was his escape from the responsibilities he had not expected and a title that weighed heavy upon his chest, as if his own father were sitting on it, suffocating him.

Faramir had not told Éowyn, but the Steward’s study had an excellent view of Éowyn’s door. In mornings, he would watch for her to open it, catching the sun, usually to head to him to break her fast. She always took a deep breath when she felt the sun upon her skin, as if reminding herself that she was alive. Faramir rose early in the mornings merely to wait for this moment, to see his beloved quietly celebrate that she was alive.

Faramir folded the last of the letters he had composed, a long letter to the new Kings of Dale and Mount Erebor, congratulating them on their victories against the dark army, and inviting them to Gondor for the coronation of King Elessar, plus an offer of aid to help them rebuild. He would consult his uncle and Lord Aragorn on its contents before stamping it and sending it forth with swift messengers. Perhaps he would also speak with Éowyn and Éomer, so that Rohan and Gondor could present a united stand of support for their hardy northern neighbors. Word had reached Faramir the united army of men and dwarves had successfully routed the Easterling host, but at terrible cost. The Battle of Dale had claimed over 15,000 dwarfs and men, and both Kings Dáin and Brand had perished.  _ It is as if the world has changed so much that it cried out for new Kings, _ Faramir thought darkly,  _ including me _ . The world was entirely changed now. He jotted a few final notes to himself. Yes, he would include Éomer and Éowyn in the meeting as well. And threw the cursed ring from his finger and hurried out of the study.

Faramir had ordered a bath for himself, and saw his attendants waiting for him. He nodded and they bowed, hurrying to the bath chamber. Faramir thought of Éowyn, sticking his finger in his pocket to feel the lock of her hair within. He could almost smell her intoxicating lavender scent, a token of her mother’s love, and now a sign of her love for him.

“One more thing,” Faramir caught the head of his staff, “Could you see that attendants also prepare a bath for Lady Éowyn? I will be escorting her to the gates to greet the host. Be sure to include lavender.”

“Of course sir.” the man bowed, and hurried away.

Faramir had raided his mother’s effects once again, asking his maids to select a few dresses befitting the occasion that could be worn by Éowyn. He hoped he had not been too presumptuous, but knew that she had ridden to Gondor in haste (and as a man), and likely did not have any formal effects. The maids had shown him three truly remarkable dresses, and he had asked his old cook who knew Finduilas if any of those dresses held some special memory of his mother, that might cause offense if he’d so readily dressed his fiancée in them. The old cook confirmed that no, none of those dresses were worn on special occasions, so he sent them to Éowyn’s apartment. One in particular had stood out to him, a dress made of pure white silk with feather-light embroidery of stars and flowers on the bodice; simple, elegant, yet ethereal. He knew she would glow if she chose it, and secretly hoped that she would. The maids had also found a circlet that was perfect, made of gold with green jewels,  _ for Rohan _ . Faramir had them send that over as well.

Faramir closed himself in the bath chamber, and lowered himself into the water, feeling the soothing sting of its heat. He soaped himself quickly and looked at the puckered scar now upon his left shoulder, then rotated it gingerly. It did not pain him anymore, save for cold mornings when he’d had a particularly fretful slumber. But the exercises with Beregond were bringing back his strength, and he was beginning to feel natural with a sword in his hand again. This was good, as he would need to wear his ceremonial attire today, for the first time since… he could not remember.

Faramir dried himself off, and combed out his hair. His staff had set out his outfit, and he sighed. The last ruling Steward, greeting the return of his King. In his dreams of this day, never had he been haunted by fire, or been mourning the loss of his brother. Never either had it been he who turned over the rule of Gondor. But he had also never dreamed of holding the hand of a woman like Éowyn, his betrothed. Good comes with the bad. Faramir dressed and looked in the mirror.  _ Here stands the last Ruling Steward of Gondor, _ he thought, and could feel both a sadness in its passing, but also a joy, knowing that soon the weight of that office would be off of his chest. Finally strapping on his sword belt, Faramir was ready. He did not dally, and headed directly to the guest houses.

Knowing he would be early, Faramir walked to Éowyn’s apartment, nodding at Beregil as he approached. Beregil looked the very image of health in his new guard attire, with the small band signifying the royal family of Rohan. When Faramir knocked, the door opened. His breath caught as he saw her.

Éowyn had chosen his mother’s white dress. In it, she glowed with brilliant starlight, as if Elbereth herself had kissed her. She wore the golden circlet adorned green jewels, as if his mother knew one day her attire would provide for the Princess of Rohan. Éowyn’s hair billowed down to her waist, its golden waves somehow perfectly matched her dress and circlet. She looked as if she had walked out of an old tale of the greatest lords and ladies, so beautiful and regal she was. She smiled shyly at Faramir, and he realized that she was sizing him up in his ceremonial attire too. He got down on one knee, took her outstretched hand, and kissed it lovingly. Those warm hands would be his to kiss forever.

“You’re early min elskede,” Éowyn slowly approached him.

“I should need to recover from the sight I am seeing,” Faramir stood back up, “For I fear that the woman before me is such a vision that I might faint.”

Éowyn rolled her eyes and laughed, “No need to continue wooing me Faramir, you’ve already won my hand.”

“If speaking truth is wooing, I fear your days will be filled with it,” Faramir then pulled Éowyn in, and kissed her deeply. He could smell the subtle hint of lavender that wafted through the air when he came closer to her.

“You look a wonder yourself Steward of Gondor. Save for one thing.” Éowyn eyes were on his head, and he could see the flicker in her eye, “Come with me, I will make quick work of your hair.”

Éowyn took Faramir’s hand and led him into her small dining room. The letter he had left her that morning was gone, he smiled.

“Sit,” Éowyn commanded, and Faramir did not resist.

Then he felt her fingers in his hair, and he closed his eyes. Her hands worked through to his scalp, and Faramir escaped into his imagination. Those fingers running through his hair when he was trying to crawl back to reality from his fire dreams. Other images streamed through his mind as well, but as they were not yet married, so he let himself linger upon them. yet.

“There. You may have no circlet, but your hair is worthy of Kings.” Éowyn beamed at him, and he touched the back of his head, to find that she had pulled his hair back and braided it tightly in an Elven manner. He slipped his finger down to the bottom and found it was tied in a small leather strip. Part of the leather strap he’d tied to the lavender, his first gift to her. He’d barely thought of that strap afterward, but she’d now found two ways to show him her love with it.

“Gi melín, me'a en' coiamin,” Faramir spoke his words first in Sindarin, then leaned in to whisper, “I love you, light of my life.”

Éowyn smiled at him, and kissed him again. Faramir then kissed both of Éowyn’s hands, and stood.

“Before we head out to the gate to welcome the host and our loved ones, I would have one last walk through Minas Tirith with you. For I fear that now that the Kings have returned, we will always have our escorts,” Éowyn sounded a bit sad. No more pulling him into a small courtyard to sneak another kiss, especially now that her brother was back. Courtly dinners and evenings sitting and talking would have to do for now. Faramir was loathe to give up their intimacy, but being in her presence, holding her hand, listening to her sorrows was enough. He cherished them as much as the smell of her hair and the taste of her lips. And those would return to him in due time.

And so they departed, walking hand in hand down into the city, Beregond and Beregil their escorts. The host was within sighting distance of the spotters, only an hour yet before they were here. The White Lady of Rohan, glowing in her gown made of starlight, and the Steward, the vision of vitality in the proud colors of Gondor, would make one more walk down toward the triumphant crowd, before the tidal waves of celebration and the onset of the new world finally took them.


	6. Éomer 2

 

The glimmering White City had been within Éomer’s sight now for hours, and was climbing ever closer. Merry rode to his right in the place of honor, only befitting his stature. Merry had refused to let Éomer make him a knight just yet, as he had promised Éowyn that she would be present too. Éomer was now unsure if his Kingship carried any power at all where his sister was involved. He doubted it. Imrahil had taken up the position to his left, and had been speaking endlessly about the celebrations and traditions of Gondor. Speaking specifically about how Lothíriel loved to dance and was the very soul of joy at celebrations, though word had come that his children would not be to Minas Tirith for another day yet, having waited for the Amroth guard to clear the road to the harbor, to be sure it was safe.

Éomer squirmed. Yes, of course he had looked upon the beautiful women of the Mark, but he had never seen fit to consider such affairs. Saruman had been harrying the Mark for so long that his mind was endlessly focused on battles, and the only woman who he could spare a thought for was his hunted sister. He still wished he had finished Gríma off that day in the stables, crushed his throat then thrust his sword through that vile man’s heart, just for good measure…

“Éomer?” Imrahil’s call broke Éomer out of his contemplation, “I know your haste to get back to your sister, but many of us do not have steeds of the quality of yours!”

Éomer looked down and saw the sheen of sweat that had appeared on Firefoot. Éomer eased the steed up.

“Apologies, I was letting my mind go to a place of anger and failure,” Éomer slowed to Imrahil’s side, then looked back to see a very windswept Merry on the energetic pony he’d absconded with from Minas Tirith.

“Perhaps making your sorrows mine would help,” Imrahil looked solemnly at Éomer

“It is not my secret to tell. But a man who brought hurt to my family was granted mercy I do not believe he deserves,” Éomer reddened.

“Mercy is a strange gift,” Imrahil replied, “It is a grace paid to the Valar, whose repayment often comes when we least expect it.”

Éomer frowned. He was not sure that Imrahil would feel so gracious if he had known the full of it. A man’s most cowardly act is the one of trying to claim a woman by force. Every time he tried to think about meeting a woman, the image of Gríma choking Éowyn returned to him. Of the fealty of men, of his own fear that he would someday lay a hand on a woman who would view it and him with fear. He looked ahead. He could see the lower levels of the city now, and he knew he had to see his sister.

Éomer looked back at Imrahil and Merry one more time, then in one swift motion propelled Firefoot forward. This time he would gallop and not look back.

Two riders appeared on either side, and Éomer recognized the Lord of Horses Shadowfax, with Gandalf on his back, and the lovely elven steed Roheryn, with his fellow King upon his back. Éomer wanted to continue racing back to his sister, but the riders on either side of him slowed his progress. He looked pleadingly over at Aragorn.

“We all want to return to the city, my good King, but we must do so together, so that the least of us are greeted with the same fervor as the greatest of us,” Aragorn called to him.

“But, I need to see her,” Éomer pleaded

“She will be there for you. And galloping away from the rest of your host is not the way to greet her.” Gandalf had broken in now, “We are not the heroes of this return. There are two who saved Middle Earth being carried in litters in the back, not having healed from an ordeal beyond what any of us can comprehend. Would you want to deny them by riding in and stealing your sister away?”

Éomer knew better than to argue with wizards, and Gandalf was stern, so Éomer let up. Firefoot snorted at his master, and Éomer snorted back. He deserved the admonition from them all.

“Is it the Steward that troubles you, my friend?” Aragorn was probing gently, but his question caught Éomer’s attention.

“No. Well, it wasn’t,” Éomer frowned, but he looked at Aragorn, and there was a shadow in the high Lord’s eyes, “So much has happened in such a short time. I feel I owe Éowyn the apologies of a lifetime for overlooking her.”

Yes, there was definitely something haunted in Aragorn’s expression.

“A single hour will not be the difference between her forgiveness and her wrath,” Gandalf replied, “You should trust the word of your squire, and of Éowyn herself, that she has found joy in this world. And put your own guilt from your mind, at least for the next hour, so we can come to the city together.”

Éomer slumped into his saddle. They were right. Before both rode off, Éomer caught Aragorn.

“There is much you are not saying, but your eyes are telling me a tale,” Éomer did not break Aragorn’s gaze, “Why is there pain in your eyes when we speak of my sister?”

He didn’t care that he was being forward. Aragorn had practically fled Éowyn’s room after saving her life. He had not spoken a single word of her when Éomer had probed, and in Merry’s wonderful tale of the Shieldmaiden, he had looked nearly as bereaved as Éomer had. It was puzzling. At the question, Aragorn’s expression turned drawn.

“I failed her,” Aragorn had spoken slowly, choosing his words carefully, “And nearly destroyed her in my misunderstanding.”

Éomer was quiet for a moment. Perhaps both had taken the incorrect measure of Éowyn, not fully seeing her as the person she was, and assuming that she, as a woman, would be happy to be bound to the cages that were presented, as if they were her choice.

“It sounds like both of us failed her in similar measure,” Éomer did not break their eye contact, and saw the slightest twitch in Aragorn.

“I fear that the scales of our failures are quite different Éomer,” the despair in Aragorn’s eyes was growing, “I am betrothed. And I did not trust your sister enough to give her a chance to understand.”

Éomer froze. Betrothed? He played back all the conversations the two of them had had, and nowhere could he remember this particular information being mentioned. That explained a lot. Why had he not shared this until now?

As if sensing Éomer’s question, “We’ve been troth-plighted for 30 years, but I have loved her for near 70. I met her when I was young, and thought I had walked into a particularly pleasant dream, so beautiful she was. Her father told me I would not be allowed to marry her until I fulfilled my destiny, defeating Sauron, uniting the Kingdoms, and taking up my birthright. And so, that has been my lifelong quest. I… don’t speak of it… because I feared speaking its name would bring us all to doom.”

“But why did you not tell Éowyn? That your heart belonged to another? If you had any idea what she had been through…” Éomer started, but Aragorn interrupted him.

“Only now do I understand the depth of my folly, not trusting your sister to know her own heart,” Aragorn looked stricken, “You are a good brother, one of the best, Éomer. That I get you as my ally and fellow King is a blessing beyond Arda. Éowyn has probably already forgiven you, if there was ever a fault she saw in you in the first place. I just hope that one day she will find it in her heart to forgive me as well.”

With that, Aragorn propelled his steed forward and rejoined Pippin, Legolas and Gimli. Éomer was left pondering the conversation when Imrahil and Merry were back by his side.

“It seems you have stopped trying to break from us in your frenzy to get to the gates,” Merry grinned, “Conversations with Strider will do that to a person.”

“I understand better now the pain in his look when others speak of my sister,” Éomer mused out loud, drawing a keen look from Imrahil, and an understanding look from Merry.

“Éowyn is lucky to have you. And I hope that Strider’s words were ones of regret,” Merry spoke up, and Éomer detected hurt in the Hobbit’s voice.

Éomer looked at Merry carefully before replying, “they were. I see there is more to this tale.”

Merry reddened and looked away, “you should ask Éowyn the whole of it. Please don’t ask me anymore.”

“Is it something my nephew should know?” Imhrahil’s voice was stern.

“Faramir knows in full all of Éowyn’s sorrows. And Éowyn’s heart is truer than any I’ve yet met in my many years. And to question my lady is to challenge me.” Merry’s voice carried a sternness beyond Imrahil’s, and he threw an intense and defiant look at the prince.

Merry’s response had taken Imrahil by surprise, and the look of concern that was growing upon his face became a look of contrition, then of being duly impressed. Éomer swelled with pride. He could not have found a more honorable squire if he had scoured all of Middle Earth for one.

“I am sorry Merry. I am very protective of my nephew, nearly as protective as you are of your Lady.” Imrahil said

“I am just as protective of Faramir sir. For both of them have planted deep roots in my heart. When I speak of the truth and honor in their love, I speak of something I watched grow with mine own eyes.” Merry looked at Imrahil solemnly.

“And we will see all for ourselves quite soon, as I daresay we’ll be through the gates shortly!” Éomer broke their conversation and pointed to the gate, which was now directly in front of them. Less than an hour to go.


	7. Aragorn 2

When Éomer had accelerated nearly out of the host, Aragorn knew he had to stop him. He was grateful to have seen the white blur of Gandalf and Shadowfax streaking up to join them. The young King had been pressing the host to move ever faster, and Aragorn could feel his urgency to get back to Minas Tirith, back to his sister. But had Aragorn known the perceptiveness of the young King, perhaps he would not have ridden to him so eagerly.

He knew that Éomer had been aware of Éowyn’s love, and that he had marked Aragorn’s melancholy at the reverential tales of the Shieldmaiden who’d laughed at Fear itself. Éomer’s words, “if you had any idea what she’d been through...” Aragorn shuddered as an image come to the fore of his mind. A moment in Edoras as Théoden was passing a sentence upon Wormtongue: Éomer about to step forward, and Éowyn’s hand holding him back. A detail that he’d disregarded at the time, but now he saw that moment in perfect clarity. Éowyn then kept her brother silent on Wormtongue’s violation, to save her uncle from additional pain. She possessed mercy beyond what all but the most beneficent were capable of.

Éowyn’s secret was now shared by at least three. But Aragorn could not bring himself to tell Éomer the whole of his understanding, for it seemed such an invasion that he should know Éowyn’s deepest secrets, without her consent and without her knowledge. How would he tell her? How would he tell all three whom he’d healed and shared that connection with? Perhaps that was part of the price of drawing those back from the shadow, to experience their despair alone and in secret.

Even as Éowyn was the most prominent in his nightmares and dreams, so he also saw Faramir, and Merry in turn. He wanted to be near them all, to see their light and their joy, so that he could turn away from their sorrows. And he desperately longed for Arwen. He needed her love to draw the sorrows out of him. He needed her to tell him what he should do, holding onto these secrets. What had her father done when he drew so many from the shadow? Had the light of the Eldar protected Elrond from the savagery of their despair? He was not sure he could wait for them for this. He was not even fully certain that Arwen would come. He’d asked her to give up her immortality to be with him, a doomed request for a doomed man on a doomed world. Now that he had fulfilled that destiny, would she still come and give it all up for him?

Aragorn could feel the shadow come over his mind, then when he looked over, he saw a small face was studying him keenly. Pippin was looking into his eyes, and seemed to have marked his sadness.

“You’re about to ride through the gates in your victory Strider, to become the King. Why are there shadows in your eyes?” Pippin asked, his voice low, for just the two of them, how had Pippin known? As if intuiting Aragorn’s question, Pippin continued, “I’ve spent enough time with Merry and Frodo to know the look of a person who’s battling the dark, and I know you now Strider.”

Aragorn sighed. Everyone should be so lucky as to have the friendship of a Hobbit.

“I fear that in drawing our friends back from the shadow, I’ve inherited some of their sorrows,” it was the truth, but only the smallest part of it, “And I worry that in this time of triumph, the only thing my heart truly desires may not come.”

Pippin studied him for a while, then nodded.

“She will come.” there was surety in his voice, and Pippin’s eyes were solemn, “And she will forgive you.”

And Aragorn knew that Pippin was speaking of two different woman in his life. One who’d claimed his heart and his love, and one whose forgiveness and friendship could heal his despair. How had Pippin known of Éowyn? ...Merry. Those Hobbits shared everything, and Aragorn felt relief to see that there was sympathy in Pippin’s eyes. If only he could unburden himself of all to the small Hobbit, but he knew that would be unfair. He needed Arwen.

Aragorn smiled down at the little Hobbit, “I hope you are right Pippin. I will let myself hope.”

Aragorn looked around for Gandalf, and saw that he was in the back of the host, with Sam and Frodo. If there were two who would know the despair of the shadow, it was these two. Aragorn felt ashamed of his own despair, thinking of all that the others had gone through. His need to see Éowyn whole, and for her to give him her forgiveness, was nothing compared to the darkness of carrying the Ring. No, he could bear this all. He just hoped that he wouldn’t have to. It was clear to him now that eventually he would have to tell Merry, Faramir, and Éowyn what he now knew of their sorrow.

As if his thoughts had propelled the hoofs of his steed, Aragorn looked up and saw the gates of the White City before him. He was home.

Aragorn focused, and he could see the immense crowd of people, waiting for  _ him _ . He wheeled Roheryn around and doubled back to Éomer and Prince Imrahil. He beckoned Merry and Pippin to ride in with them, as well as Legolas and Gimli. They would ride in together. The bannermen of Rohan, Gondor, and Dol Amroth rode just behind them, as did his Dúnedain Rangers, whom he saw were now also mingled in with Faramir’s Ithilien Rangers.

_ Fitting _ , thought Aragorn with a smile,  _ that the Steward and the King’s men should be so near to kin. _

Aragorn wished that Sam and Frodo could ride with the honor guard, but knew that both were still healing under Gandalf’s careful watch, and would be brought nearly immediately to the House of Healing. There would be time yet for them to be celebrated and recognized. He would have to ask Merry and Pippin, whom had shown such talent at composing, if they would perform the tale to their bravery during the coronation feast, if Sam and Frodo were amenable.

With a final nod and wink to Éomer, Aragorn set his spurs to Roheryn and the honor guard took off, finishing the last few furlongs to the gates. The cheer that erupted as they made their way in lightened his heart. Just before they were in, both Kings slowed their horses to a trot.

Aragorn looked into the faces in the crowd. He could not miss them. Faramir stood tall, in an exquisite jerkin adorned with the tree and stars of Gondor. Underneath was a tunic of embroidered white silk, for the Steward. And though Faramir did not wear a crown, his hair was fashioned after the high elves, more noble than if his hair had been adorned with jewels. But Faramir’s magnificence was not what caught Aragorn’s eye. Éowyn didn’t just glow, she was a light unto herself. Her dress was a brilliant white that seemed to channel starlight even in the afternoon sun. She wore a circlet of gold and green in her hair. But it was the fire in her blue eyes that held him hostage. For every moment he looked upon her, she matched his gaze, defying him to pity her. At that moment, she drew closer to Faramir, whose arm was around her. Aragorn then saw him whisper something into her ear, which elicited the brightest smile Aragorn had ever seen cross her face. Aragorn felt a tear come to his eye seeing the glowing couple, whose very presence radiated bliss and majesty.

He finally broke his eyes away from the Steward and the Princess, and chanced a glance at Éomer. Éomer had not yet broken away from the vision that was his sister, nor the illustrious Steward that was her fiancé, and there was a tear in his eye too. Aragorn clapped Éomer on the back and smiled.

“Time for our reunions,” Aragorn kept his hand on the young King’s shoulder, “Go to your sister.”

Éomer nodded, and jumped off of his horse, making his way through the crowd toward the glowing couple. Aragorn watched as Merry and Pippin also dismounted and went scrambling after Éomer. Prince Imrahil followed suit, but showed much more restraint than the young King and the Hobbits. He wondered if he should join, but decided not. He would instead escort Sam and Frodo to the House of Healing with Gandalf. He saw that Legolas and Gimli had also dismounted, but with a nod, he knew that they would come with him. Aragorn wheeled around and went to Gandalf. Now was not the time for the King. Now was the time for reunions. Now was the time for healing.


	8. Éowyn 2

Éowyn was trembling. It had started the moment that she and Faramir had set forth toward the gates, in their walk through the city. It was the slightest of tremors, not noticeable to any save for Faramir and their escorts, but there it was. Sensing her unease, Faramir had pulled her closer into him, surrounding her with his protective loving aura.

“We can turn back,” it was whispered for her ears only, “I can go and greet the host, and say you were called away to the House of Healing.”

“No min elskede,” Éowyn whispered back, “Seeing my brother ride through those gates is worth everything to me. I will face my sorrows and my shame with my head held high.”

“Then tell me your sorrows as we walk,” Faramir gently kissed her ear as he whispered.

“Just my shame at my weakness. This is the first time I will see him again, since he broke me,” the trembling grew in intensity as Éowyn said it, and Faramir pulled her in even closer, “I feel healed. But I do not know what seeing his look of pity will do to me.”

“You look as if you were kissed by starlight today, min elskede. And I will give you all I have in me to lift you back up again,” Faramir looked into Éowyn’s eyes, and she saw him, and his promise.

Éowyn stopped, then pulled him to her and kissed him deeply. Her husband-to-be, whose love would always be there to lift her into the light.

“You are going to need to stop doing that, if you want me to survive meeting your brother,” Faramir was smiling as he pushed her away.

“I cannot help it, when you dress as if you were one of the high Elven Kings reincarnate,” Éowyn smiled at him.

“If this is the greeting I can expect, I shall dress for ceremony every day of my life,” Faramir snuck a kiss onto Éowyn’s cheek, still grinning, “How did you learn how to braid hair in the Elven fashion?”

“It was one of the few things I could do without fearing for my safety from  _ him _ . I sparred, and in so doing, I learned how to braid my hair to keep it out of the way. He- he always looked at me with a bit of fear in his eyes when I braided my hair as the Elven Kings, coming in sweaty from sparring. I marked it, and was able to obtain a book, and so… it became a pastime,” Éowyn replied. She hadn’t thought about why she’d learned the art before. No one had asked her.

“Would you be… willing to do it… again?” Faramir had pulled her in closer, “I will now have to pay attention to things I never had to before, like the state of my hair. And when you run your fingers through it…”

Éowyn laughed. She knew she could hypnotize the Steward simply by running her hands through his hair and over his scalp, so deep was his enjoyment of the sensation. She enjoyed it too. His hair was silky and soft, and when she touched it, it surrendered the smell of his soap. A smell she had grown to associate with him.

“It would be my honor. As your friend, as your betrothed, and soon, as your wife,” Éowyn could feel Faramir pulling her to him again, and she surrendered her mouth to his willingly. Suddenly she became aware that her trembling had subsided. Faramir had noticed as well.

“You are ready,” Faramir whispered to her.

“Now, let’s quicken our steps to see your people before we must focus on decorum and formality,” Éowyn grabbed Faramir’s hand and started to pull him toward the gates of the city.

Faramir let Éowyn drag him forward, and both smiled and greeted the people heading to welcome the host. Many openly marveled at the couple. Men would stop Éowyn and kiss her hand, thanking her for her courage and congratulating Faramir on his capture of the divine. Women and children ran up to both, handing them flowers and saying their thanks.

One particularly bold girl squared her shoulders to Éowyn and exclaimed, “When I grow up, I want to be a Shieldmaiden just like you.” before her embarrassed mother pulled her away. Éowyn smiled most broadly at that - and hoped that by breaking out of her own cage, she gave other girls a chance to see too that they were not bound to be caged either. Faramir had his arm around her, and she could feel him give the slightest squeeze after they passed the young girl.

“You’ve made your impression White Lady, I hope you’re ready to captain a brigade of the bravest Shieldmaidens of Gondor,” Faramir said this with amusement in his voice, but quieted at the look Éowyn gave him.

“I was not the only woman doomed to a cage Faramir. I fought my way out with a sword and a deathwish,” Éowyn’s eyes were stern, “I should hope that in this new age, our destinies are not determined by whether we were born man or woman, but at least in some part by what moves our hearts.”

“I’m sorry min elskede. I should never take the suffering of half my people so lightly,” Faramir sighed, “I should know better than to jest about destiny, seeing as I find myself trapped by mine own cage.”

Éowyn pulled Faramir close again, “tell me your sorrows.”

Faramir turned to her, they were nearing the gate to the second level, “tonight.”  
Éowyn nodded, she would hold him to that promise.

Finally, the two walked out onto the platform set for them, the Steward of Gondor and the Princess of Rohan, glittering and glowing, ready to triumphantly welcome their brethren through the gate, in the celebration of the coming new age, and the coming of the King.

“I am almost surprised that they managed to keep Éomer from galloping out the front of the host. He will be a good King, but there are still times his impulsive side wins,” Éowyn leaned into Faramir, who reflexively put his arm around her.

“That’s what I am afraid of,” Faramir replied, and it drew a raucous laugh from Éowyn, but then she saw Éomer holding Gríma by his neck, unbridled animalistic fury in his face.

“Éomer will want to take your measure, but no, I don’t think you need to worry about that. He stayed his killer hand twice before, in much worse circumstances,” Éowyn could feel Faramir pull her closer, knowing of what she spoke, “Seeing one who loves me as much as he does will scare him at first, but then I’ve no doubt he will grow to love you nearly as much as I.”

Faramir smiled, and relaxed his grip around her. She placed her head on his shoulder, and saw that the crowd was following every movement of their beloved Steward and Princess. But then a murmur redirected their gaze outward, and Éowyn could see the riders approaching. In the front, she recognized nearly every rider, in the middle was her brother, the two smallest riders were of course the Hobbits, Pippin and Merry, the taller one to Éomer’s right she did not know and… the tallest. There he was. It was time for them to be reunited. Éowyn stiffened, and could feel Faramir tense as well.

“You are Éowyn Wraithbane, Shieldmaiden and Princess of Rohan. She who laughed in the face of Fear, and won the love of all the people of Gondor, though no one more than the Steward,” Faramir was whispering in her ear, audible only to her. She smiled. “Your story will be sung in all corners of Middle Earth, and even in the Undying Lands, so valiant was she who slayed the Witch-King. And your heart is so full of love you traded your sword for healing hands, bringing light to any and all you touch, no one more than the Steward.”

She wanted to turn and to kiss him, but no. She couldn’t, she could just smile as the riders became larger. Aragorn had nodded to Éomer, and both had spurred their horses forward on those final last furlongs, and she knew that Éomer was riding to her. She beamed, and watched her brother make his approach. But then her eyes locked onto someone else’s. Gray eyes were in her’s now, eyes that were once full of pity, but now… something else. Éowyn matched his gaze exactly.

_ I dare you to show pity in those eyes Aragorn, _ she thought as she held his eyes, matching their intensity, not letting up for this man who had nearly broken her the last time she saw him. Instinctively, she’d leaned closer into Faramir, whose love she donned as armor. Suddenly Faramir’s words were in her ears again.

“I fear you are going to scare our King away if you keep looking at him as if he were a Nazgûl,” the words were for her only, and she nearly let out a laugh so bright was the smile it drew to her face.

Éowyn turned her attention then to her brother, who had tears in his eyes. Aragorn had clapped him on the back, and Éomer was off his horse and pushing through the crowds. He was coming to her, decorum be damned. And Merry and Pippin were then running to them too. Éowyn turned her eyes to Faramir, and with a silent nod, both stepped off their platform and went to their loved ones. Éomer had wrapped himself around Éowyn, and she could feel his tears.

“Sister,” that was all he was able to get out, his head nuzzling into her shoulder, she pushed him back and took his face into her hands.

“You need a bath dear brother,” Éowyn’s eyes were alight. Éomer let out a raucous laugh, then she pulled his forehead to her’s, “I am so glad that you are okay. I love you so much.”

And they stayed like that for a while, taking in the splendor of finding that through everything, both were whole. But then something small had launched himself into Éowyn’s waist.

“My lady!” it was Merry, “I did not think I would be able to say that you were more beautiful than the last time I saw you, but blimey! You look as if you were dressed by the Valar!”

Éomer pulled away from Éowyn then, and sternly assessed her, “where did these come from?”

“From my sister,” Imrahil had now joined their conversation, “My beautiful Princess of Rohan, nothing brings me more pleasure than being able to see you whole and in full health. I am Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, uncle to Faramir, Steward of Gondor.”

“And my savior,” Éowyn beamed at the man, then brought herself into a low curtsy, “Thank you.”

Imrahil took Éowyn’s hand and pulled her to her feet, a tear in his solemn eyes.

“You’re welcome.” Imrahil held her gaze, and she could see love there, “Welcome to our family.”

A presence had snuck up behind her, and she knew Faramir was now there. Even without sensing him, the look on Éomer’s face would have given the moment away.

“Min elskede, this is my brother Éomer,” Éowyn stepped back so that they were looking at one another.

“King of Rohan,” Éomer’s voice was terse, and he said the words in Rohirric. So it was going to be like this.

But then Faramir did something unexpected, he went to one knee.

“Son of Éomund, King of Rohan, I am honored to meet you. By your courage my people were saved, by your grace I have been given the greatest gift on Middle Earth, the hand and the love of your beloved sister.” Faramir spoke in Rohirric, “I will be honored to call you brother.”

The accent was not perfect, but Éowyn was shocked. When had he found the time to learn so much? Faramir then stood back up, and offered his hand to Éomer. Éomer was clearly taken by surprise too, but then extended his hand to Faramir’s and they gripped each other’s forearms.

“He speaks Rohirric,” Éomer spoke to Éowyn in Rohirric.

“News to me too,” Éowyn replied.

Then Éomer and Éowyn broke into laughter, joined by Faramir too. Éomer then smiled, but remained reserved, “You need to work on your accent. It’s far too formal.”

“What just happened?” Merry had pushed through, followed by Pippin.

“Faramir has been learning Rohirric behind my back,” Éowyn found Faramir’s hand, and squeezed it.

“Merry, Pippin, Prince, King,” Faramir did not let go of Éowyn’s hand, “I would like to invite you to sup with Éowyn and me tonight in the Steward’s quarters. I want to hear everything about your travels, and perhaps we can answer your queries as well.”

“We’d be honored,” Imrahil replied.

“Depends, will there be chocolate?” Pippin piped up.

And another wave of laughter arose from Faramir and Éowyn.

“Yes, Pippin, enough hot chocolate for all of us,” Faramir beamed, “I’ve also arranged for quarters for you in the guest apartments. Close to where Éowyn is staying. I should be happy to escort you up.”

“Oh dear! I must take my leave from you all now…” Éowyn needed to get to the apartment and change back into her healer’s clothes. She would not miss tending to the wounded tonight, even for her brother.

“Éowyn?” Éomer looked pleading.

“I’m a healer’s apprentice now brother, and my charges need me. I will be back to you all in no time. Faramir will be able to take care of you until my return,” Faramir turned slightly white at this, and Éowyn realized she had not run this by him. And then it dawned on her, she was leaving Faramir with her brother. Alone. This would be interesting indeed...  Faramir assented with the slightest of nods. She was lucky that he loved her.

“Come friends and kin, for I know that you are travel-wary and could use baths. I’ll show you to your quarters. Once you have settled, by my leave you may wander the city. I look forward to seeing you all for supper.” Faramir smiled, “Éomer, once you are settled in, please call upon me. As Éowyn will be in the House of Healing, I will ask her escort Beregil to act as your escort in turn, should you want to see any other part of the city. He was one of my Rangers in Ithilien. Between us, we should give you enough company to await the return of your sister.”

Faramir was perfect. Éowyn wanted to run and kiss him, but now that her brother’s watchful eye was upon them… maybe later. So Éowyn stepped to Faramir, and placed a chaste kiss upon his cheek.   
  
“I will come at sunset,” and with that Éowyn swept away from them all to change and ready herself for an hour of using her healing hands.


	9. Éomer 3

Éomer wanted to dislike the tall raven haired Steward in front of him. But he couldn’t. For one, it was clear that Faramir was as much under Éowyn’s spell as he himself was. But moreso, the look of love that passed between the two of them was impossible to ignore. Yes, Éowyn had found her match. Then, the Rohirric? That Éowyn was taken as much by surprise as he had been made him like the man despite himself. Faramir had been secretly studying Rohirric for that moment, to make sure that he impressed his beloved’s brother.

Faramir had led the small party up into the high levels of the city, and had shown them all to their quarters. Imrahil had bowed and headed to his house, before pulling Faramir in for an animated hug. Faramir had asked Merry and Pippin if they were alright to share quarters, and both he and Éomer had been disquieted by the grins on the Hobbits’ faces as they’d accepted. Éomer had been given the apartment next to Éowyn’s.  _ Fitting _ , he had thought. When he entered, a bath was waiting for him, as were all of his other clothes and effects. It appeared the stable attendants had settled Firefoot, and moved the packs to this apartment. Éomer paced around the room, then finally gave in and turned toward the bath chamber. He disrobed and dropped himself into the bathtub. It was fire hot, just how he liked it. He wondered if Éowyn had noted his preference, or if Faramir, a soldier, knew the best remedies for the sore muscles of a long campaign. He was not sure he cared.

He thought back to that last moment riding to the gate, when something glinted in the light, and he realized that the brightest light in that shining city was his sister. He wondered who had loaned her the dress, and the circlet? She looked a marvel, a jewel in the crown of Gondor. But more than her dress, when he saw her smile, light emanated from her, and he knew then that she was healed. He did not think he had seen her so light and joyful since they were children, before their father had died. Nothing could have convinced him of Faramir’s worth more than that. It was a miracle. 

Éomer sighed, he had not expected this. He had not expected to see his sister in such bliss, healed, strong, and more formidable than he ever gave her credit for. She was worthy of her title Wraithbane. That she would delay the joy of their reunion to go and heal? He sniffled. She was his little sister no more, but a woman valiant and high.

_ Never again will I underestimate you beloved sister, even as I am heartbroken to let you go, _ Éomer thought on her. He pawed around for soap, and when he grabbed it, it released its scent. Lavender. Éowyn always loved the smell of lavender, because it reminded her of their mother. Éomer smiled. Éowyn was with him here, Éowyn would always be with him. He finished scrubbing, then found a plain tunic and pants laid out for him. He slipped into them, finding they fit him well. Éomer then walked into the chamber, re-set his sword belt, and laced his boots. He had a chance for some one-on-one time with the Steward, as if a gift given to him by his sister, and he wasn’t going to waste it. Éomer walked out of his apartment to see the guard of Gondor there waiting. Was this man really going to be his escort?

“A pleasure, King of Rohan,” the man bowed, “My name is Beregil. I’m here by the order of the Steward.”

“I don’t need an escort.” Éomer could hear the challenge in his voice. He was perfectly capable of finding his way around, and his sword had served him well.

“Éowyn said you would say that,” Beregil’s gray eyes were on Éomer now, “And she said to tell you that she healed me, and we spoke of our families, and that she asks that you give me the courtesy of letting me serve you.”

Éomer raised an eyebrow. He was in a chess match with his sister, and she appeared to be five moves ahead already.

“How did you come to be in the House of Healing and know my sister?” Éomer was suspicious

“I was Ranger in Captain Faramir’s company, retreating from Osgiliath under the dread of the Witch-King. I was one of the last, Faramir being one of the only men behind me. I started having violent fits and shadow dreams from the experience, and for a while was a danger to myself and to others,” Beregil looked at Éomer steadily, “Your sister and Faramir came to me, and I started seeing them in my dreams too. Éowyn glowed white against that dread thing, and I could hear her laugh. And Faramir’s voice propelled me forward, and soon I could recognize them as dreams, and wake myself without thrashing.”

He was honest. No wonder Éowyn liked him so much. Éowyn had an instinct about people. It appeared she would win this fight too.

“I am on my way to the Steward’s now. Please show me the way,” Éomer looked at the man, might as well turn this escort to his advantage, “How long have you known Faramir?”

“For ten years. Since he was just a young Captain. We served together on clandestine missions in Ithilien,” Beregil replied, “He never liked killing, but he was extremely good at it when it was needed. I was there when he and his brother Boromir blew the last bridge across the Anduin. We all thought they would die in the effort, and then both their heads popped out of the water, laughing maniacally.”

“Have there been women in his life?” Éomer doubted he would ever get the chance to ask this question again.

“Never in the time I knew him. He retreated to books, and would gallop off if word reached him that Mithrandir was in the city. But never women,” Beregil was looking into Éomer’s eyes, reading him, “Mostly Faramir was sad and thoughtful. Great at what he did, but took it as a duty, not as a joy.”

Éomer frowned at this. He loved the feeling of a sword in his hand and the wind in his hair. Watching an Orc’s head be cleaved off at the neck brought a thrill of excitement to him. But then Éomer thought about the skirmishes with the Dunlendings, and realized there was a marked difference in killing an Orc, which was an unnatural thing created by dark magic, and a man. Éomer did not relish killing men.

“Is he a good swordsman?” Éomer pressed on

“Yes, one of the best I’ve seen, though his true skill is with bow and arrow,” Beregil replied, “I could think of no one I would want protecting my beloved sister more.”

Éomer scowled. So, Beregil had read Éomer that easily. Éomer had never liked talking to those with Númenor blood for long periods, and looked forward to going home and being away from so many who could read his mind so plainly.

“Faramir usually likes to exercise his shoulder by taking swordplay in the evenings. He has likely not gotten to do so today, perhaps he would appreciate the chance to test his skill against a new partner,” Beregil winked. No, Éomer did not like the feeling of being read at all. But he liked the idea of matching swords with the Steward. Instinctively, Éomer’s hand felt his sword hilt. Hopefully the Steward would have armor he could borrow. Beregil motioned to Éomer, and he saw that he was in front of a white door. The door of the Steward’s House he reckoned.

“I take my leave of you now, Éomer King. I must go stand vigil and await your sister at the House of Healing. Go easy on the Steward, he took an arrow to his left shoulder, and it has only now regained its strength,” Beregil smiled, and turned toward the lower gate.

Éomer went to knock, and found the door had already opened. Faramir stood before him, relieved of his ceremonial attire, and in a similarly casual dress to Éomer, a plain white tunic and black pants.

“I’ve always had keen ears. I heard your parting words with Beregil,” Faramir said quickly, as if excusing his throwing the door open, “Please come in.” He was nervous. For some reason, that made Éomer smile. Faramir closed the door behind him, and both went and sat across from each other in the sitting room.

“He’s a good man,” Éomer replied, “He said you healed him.”

“More Éowyn than me,” Faramir said awkwardly, looking at Éomer, “But yes. I know his dreams all too well.”

“You led your men on a retreat under the wings of Fear,” Éomer was speaking mostly to himself, but he wanted to hear Faramir’s mind, “You saved most of their lives.”

Faramir cast his head down, “Not enough.”

Éomer needed Faramir to stop saying things that added to his respect for him.

“I still think about every one of them that I couldn’t save,” Éomer was back into his own mind, “I was part of the northern flank. I wasn’t there when that  _ abomination _ went after my uncle. I often wonder if I would have had the courage to stand up to him like my sister and Merry did. They saved my uncle from humiliation, they gifted me his last words.”

Faramir looked at Éomer, and both saw shadows in the other’s eyes. Then Faramir smiled faintly.

“She saved my entire people Éomer, her courage spread like wildfire through the host, and they rallied,” light was appearing in Faramir’s eyes now, “Éowyn Wraithbane laughed in the face of Fear before smiting him to the ground. She will forever be beloved in Gondor for the gift she bestowed upon us.”

“And of you?” Éomer could hear challenge in his voice.

“For me? I think I knew I loved her near the moment I met her,” Faramir replied, another honest man, “But she stole my heart when she showed her compassion for others. Even the moments in her life she feels the most shame about are moments where she showed the quality of her heart. She fled Meduseld to ride with the host, thinking she abandoned her people, when she just found a braver and more honorable way to protect them. When she stayed her uncle’s wrath over…”

Faramir blanched. Éomer first was confused, until he realized how to finish the sentence.  _ Faramir knew about the stables _ .

“You know then…” Éomer was trying keep the blood from coming to his face, but every time he drew forth that memory, he could feel his heartbeat quicken. One more precious second and Gríma would have been dead in his hand.

“Yes.” Faramir was frozen, and white.

“I wish I had killed that little vermin that night. I wonder still how much more of her terror I missed, for Éowyn would not tell me,” Éomer could feel bile rising in his throat, then he felt a hand on his. He pulled away and looked at Faramir, white hot rage in his eyes.

“There is nothing more cowardly in this world than a man trying to claim a woman using force. If I ever see that filth again I will not stay my hand,” Éomer spoke clearly, “I almost failed my sister that night. I will not fail her the next time. If anyone puts fear of men into her like that again, I will kill them.”

He expected Faramir to shrink away, understanding the threat, but instead, he saw kindred rage.

“We vow here and now brother, that if anyone tries to bring harm to Éowyn, we together will hunt them down and make them wish for death before we give them that gift,” fire was in Faramir’s eyes as he spoke, and he put his hand out once more to Éomer, “Even if that person is you or me.”

Éomer then took Faramir’s hand in a brotherly embrace, an agreement, a promise. Yes, Éowyn had chosen well. He had to admit, he was pleased to call this man his brother.

“I’m not kidding I will kill you if you hurt her.” Éomer looked at him, and Faramir nodded solemnly.

“Not if I kill myself out of shame first.”

Yes, Éomer liked the Steward.

Éomer then grinned, and noted the sword Faramir had been wearing at the ceremony. He pointed to it.

“Nice piece of steel. Does it get any use?”

Faramir grinned, “Not much since the retreat. I’ve only just regained my strength by sparring.”

“Beregil told me you might be searching for new sparring partners,” a glint came into Éomer’s eyes, “Care to test your skill against the King of Rohan?”

Faramir looked to his sword, then to Éomer and smiled.

“I could use a good exercise, yes. I was cooped up with papers most of the day,” Faramir got up from the chair he was on, “I have armor and dull swords in a shed in the garden. Follow me.”

And off they went. Two warriors both showing their quality, solidifying their bond as brothers and consecrating their vow to protect their beloved Shieldmaiden with the singing of swords.


	10. Imrahil 1

Any reservations Imrahil might have had about the love between the Princess of Rohan and the Steward of Gondor had been put to rest the moment he laid eyes upon them. On their platform of the city welcoming the host, they emitted their own light, so powerful was their presence and vital their love for one another. Faramir looked Kingly in his ceremonial dress as Steward of Gondor, more so than Denethor had looked even on his most imposing day. Imrahil had wondered how Faramir had found someone who could braid his hair in high Elven fashion in the city. Éowyn though, she stopped men’s breath. Standing tall and valiant next to the Steward, she looked as if she was the source of the light of the White City.

Imrahil had not told her, but seeing Éowyn dressed in that dress had nearly stopped his heart. He could remember the day that Finduilas wore it. She was in Dol Amroth, getting ready to meet the man who was to woo her, the Lord Denethor of the House of Húrin. Finduilas glistened in that white dress, a vision of Elbereth herself. He remembered watching Denethor’s composure break upon seeing her, as light appeared in his eyes. Imrahil had not thought it was possible for anyone to look as beautiful in that dress as his sister once did, but he had been wrong. Somehow, the glow of Éowyn, White Lady of Rohan, basking in the love of Faramir had been as much a vision of beauty as his beloved sister. Perhaps it was because he could also so easily see Éowyn’s joy. The circlet, he recognized that too. A present from Thengel of Rohan for Finduilas’s marriage to Denethor. He was not sure if his sister ever wore the present, but could not imagine Thengel believing there was a better use for it now. Yes, he would need to tell Éowyn of all of this over supper.

More than anything, Imrahil marveled that Éowyn had healed so much of Faramir’s despair that he was able to mourn his mother. All in the family had entombed the memory of Finduilas, down to her effects. A lock had been placed on the door to her chamber, which had not been opened since her death. Then, in the darkest of tragedies, Faramir lost a father and brother in short order, but gained a wife. And instead of hiding quietly away to baste in his despair, he had opened up to her, growing stronger than Imrahil had seen him… possibly ever. His thoughtful and sad nephew, full of joy, and open enough to feel the pain that had surrounded him nearly his whole life. It was a marvel.

_ I cannot wait to tell them the tales of Finduilas _ , Imrahil smiled _. _ Yes, he would convince his nephew and Éowyn to come with him to look through his sister’s effects, telling the tales of each dress, necklace, and crown in turn, well, at least those that carried some special memory of her.

Imrahil looked out the window of his house. He wondered when his children would arrive. He hoped that Lothíriel would love Éomer, just as he did, and he hoped his reading of the young King had been right. Éomer was serious in nearly all he did, with a bluntness that was refreshing and an admirable ability to read people. The only time Éomer’s serious resolve broke seemed to be when he spoke of his sister, or when he was in the presence of the Hobbits. In those small moments, Imrahil sensed Éomer’s lightness break through his stern exterior. Imrahil fancied the idea of his family having two strong connections to the remarkable House of Eorl, through both Éowyn and Éomer. Imrahil had spoken of his daughter Lothíriel with the young King, and hoped he’d successfully planted seeds of her in Éomer’s mind. He had suspicions that they made a good pair, Lothíriel’s lightness bringing out Éomer’s playfulness.

When he wrote his family, he had included a drawing for Lothíriel of the tall and handsome young King. In his next reply from his family, she had confirmed that she would be accompanying her brothers to Minas Tirith, to celebrate the new dawn and the return of the King. Imrahil wondered which King she had in mind.

_ Even if Éomer was just the nephew of the King of Rohan, still I would seek this match _ , Imrahil mused. For the days on the march had given him a measure of the remarkable man. And to see his nephew glow from the light of Éowyn? Imrahil wondered if Gondorians should not be making more sorties to visit their allies to the North… Perhaps in these coming times of peace, when travel was less fraught, such trips would become more commonplace.

Imrahil saw that a stack of papers had already been growing on the desk in his study. Some were directly from Dol Amroth, but more appeared to have scribbles and notes from Faramir; business of the Steward he wanted advice on. Imrahil smiled. His nephew did not realize that how well he had taken on the new duties of his office. Even Lord Denethor would have approved.

Imrahil paused.  _ Denethor _ . The Steward who haunted the Steward. A man so overwhelmed by despair that he tried to kill his son. Who in the peak of grief screamed of Mithrandir stealing his boy away from him. Denethor’s final words were accusations that Mithrandir had treated a Dúnedain Ranger with favoritism, just as his father Ecthelion had. Rumors had reached Imrahil long ago of an extraordinary man named Thorongil, who led Ecthelion’s army to an impressive victory against the Umbar Corsairs that had been harassing the Gondorian coasts. The legend of the man also appeared in Rohan, slaying Moria Orcs under Thengel. Imrahil was certain that Thorongil had been the Lord Aragorn, many years younger. Denethor had never forgiven his father or Mithrandir for their allegiance to the man set to usurp the House of Húrin in ruling of Gondor. That Mithrandir had taken a liking to Faramir had caused Denethor to shut the final doors on loving his second son.

Faramir would forever have to live with the humiliation and shame of a father who burned himself and tried to burn him… It made Imrahil’s blood boil. Perhaps it would be better to see his nephew freed of the yolk of a title that tied him to Denethor.

But as Imrahil read the papers on his desk, full of thoughtful remarks and notes, he was not ready to see Faramir relinquish his seat as Steward. Imrahil wiped a tear out of his eye.  _ White Lady of Rohan, please heal my nephew of his despair and let him see his quality as a Steward wiser than his own father. _ When Imrahil made it to a letter Faramir had prepared to send to Dale and Mount Erebor, he stopped. The letter was written eloquently and lovingly of both King Brand and King Dáin, and spoke in no uncertain terms of Gondor’s thanks and offers of aid. It hit on the right political message while also speaking to the personal, of the valor of the fallen Kings and the hope for a new day for their sons. He had even noted Frodo Baggins, nephew of Bilbo Baggins, the ring bearer who destroyed Sauron in his thanks, reminding them of the little Hobbit who helped Durin’s folk win back the Lonely Mountain. The writing of the letter was a masterpiece. Imrahil then saw a small piece of paper fall from the letter, with notes Faramir had jotted down, specifically for him.

> Uncle -
> 
> Can we offer them salt? They have easy access to fish, but nothing to preserve it. Dol Amroth contains the most productive salt mines. I would also like to offer Dale some small river ships from Dol Amroth, their boats were burned by the Easterlings. I want to discuss with Éomer and Éowyn the possibility of their signing onto the letter, presenting a united show of support between Rohan and Gondor. Please let me know what you think.
> 
> Faramir

Imrahil breathed in the pride that was swelling in his chest. His nephew made a fine Steward, if only he could find happiness in that title. Now it was time for a quick bath, then he would head to the Steward’s House, to speak with his nephew before the rest of Faramir’s dinner guests arrived.

When he made his way to the House, he heard the sound of clashing swords. Imrahil’s hand was already on his scabbard, but when he looked at Beregond, something was amiss. Beregond was smiling, and he could hear voices laughing and cajoling in tune with the sword play. Beregond nodded at him and he went in, hand now relaxed. Imrahil followed the sound into the garden, and saw his nephew and the King of Rohan in an exercise. He hailed them, and saw that both had broad smiles on their faces.  _ Good _ , he thought,  _ both are having fun at least. _

“Mind if I watch?” Imrahil came through the doorway, and sat on the bench under a small tree.

“Not at all uncle!” Faramir’s eyes were alight, “Éomer was just showing me the Rohirric broadsword style.”

“More like trying to show you then watching you dance away, you Gondorians are so afraid to get hit,” Éomer exclaimed.

“Grace, good King. The fewer dents an enemy makes in me, the better,” yes, Faramir was having fun.

“I’ve heard that women really love scars,” Éomer teased.

“You’re talking about your own sister!” Imrahil called, and caught Éomer off guard momentarily. Faramir pressed his advantage, but only barely.

_ He’s letting him win, _ Imrahil realized. He had seen his nephew spar, and his skill was second to none, save possibly for his late brother and Aragorn. Faramir, even injured, would have seen Éomer yield several times. Despite this, there was a grace to the dance between the young King and the Steward. He could see Faramir was making moves slowly enough for Éomer to mark them, and try them if he wanted to.  _ Bless the Valar, Faramir is teaching him… _

Their swordplay was beautiful, full of joy and grace. Éomer was skilled with the sword, but even he seemed to recognize that if Faramir had wanted to, he would have dispatched him. Perhaps not easily, but decisively. Finally, both put down their swords, and removed their armor.

“You were right Éomer, I’ve needed new sparring partners to practice with. Thank you, it was a style I have not yet experienced, and should like you to teach me more of what you know.” Faramir bowed to him.

“We both know that if you’d wanted to, you’d have had me flat on my back,” Éomer replied, laughter in his voice, “So perhaps when you try to slyly teach me your skills next time, you will name some of the moves you model!”

Faramir looked guilty. Imrahil laughed. Faramir was engaged to this man’s sister, surely he knew that children of Éomund were as perceptive as the Dúnedain.

Éomer continued, not unkindly, “when Éowyn wrote to me, she told me she believed that your skills with the sword outmatched my own, and she was right, as she usually is. She made it clear that you could protect her. You’ve shown your quality.”

Faramir looked at Éomer solemnly, “thank you, brother.”

At this, the two men grabbed one another’s forearms in a signal of camaraderie. Imrahil’s heart nearly exploded with joy. Yes, he wanted to be bound to this family for eternity.

“Come my friends, I’m told the Steward still has a store of Dol Amroth mead, which I would like to sample. Let’s sit and talk while we wait for the rest of your guests.” Imrahil smiled, and took each man around the shoulders, then led them to the sitting room.

The mead was brought to them, and Imrahil raised a glass, “to the new dawn”, and Faramir added, “to new love,” and Éomer added “to new kin.” and they drank the mead deeply.

_ Yes _ , thought Imrahil,  _ let this be the first of many moments with these two wonderful men. _


	11. Éowyn 3

It had been a risk. Leaving Faramir with her brother. She was still not entirely sure she should have done it, but like many of her decisions, following her gut instinct was usually the right decision. Before they could even object, Éowyn was off, Beregil having to run to keep up with her, to change from her ceremonial dress and circlet back into her healer’s dress and apprentice cap.

“My lady, you run as if a Nazgûl is at your heels,” Beregil was not out of breath, but she got the distinct impression that he wanted to slow down.

“I laugh in the face of Nazgûl Beregil!” Éowyn retorted, and heard her escort laugh.

There was exhilaration in Éowyn’s heart. Her families were now coming together, and she knew she would never be broken by Aragorn’s scorn again. In fact, his eyes lit a fire in her. Her despair at his pity had morphed into fury and defiance. Was this better? She was not sure, but she knew that the fire in her blood burned away the shadow. The heartbreak from Aragorn’s scorn was a distant memory, compared with the love that was right in front of her.

Éowyn had immediately taken to Imrahil and Pippin, and wanted to be back in their company as soon as she could be, but she also felt a deep calling to apply her healing hands. Éowyn had taken note of the litters that had arrived carrying the injured, and knew from their number that she would be needed.

Éowyn finally arrived at her quarters, shouted a thank you to Beregil, and ran inside to change. At the sight of her bed, Éowyn smiled to herself. The exquisite dresses were still laying before her. She’d been pleased with her choice, if only for the look of utter unraveling that had come over Faramir’s face when he had seen her in it for the first time. She undressed herself and carefully placed both the circlet and the dress onto her bed.  _ Thank you Finduilas _ , she thought, placing her hand on her heart for the mother Faramir lost. Éowyn dressed in her plain white dress and quickly braided her hair, then tied it in Faramir’s leather strap. Adjusting her apprentice cap, she was off.

Beregil jogged after her once again, but had the good sense not to comment on her haste. She wanted her hour in the House of Healing, but she also knew that the sooner that hour was done, the sooner she could get back to the loves of her life: Faramir, Éomer, and Merry. At the door of the House of Healing, Éowyn stopped, realizing something.

“Beregil?” Éowyn turned to Beregil, who’d successfully kept pace.

“My lady?” Beregil answered.

“My brother Éomer is going to insist that he does not need an escort. Please do not listen to him. If he becomes belligerent, as he may, tell him that you were healed in part by my hand…” Éowyn would not let her brother, now King, wander un-escorted, if only to eliminate that particular worry from Faramir, “Say that I personally ask him to give you the courtesy to serve him, as you have been assigned.”

Beregil laughed, “You and your brother are very much alike. Thank you for your leave. I will go to him now.”

Beregil bowed, and was on his way. Éowyn smirked. That would keep Éomer from behaving too badly she reckoned, especially since Faramir was the one who wanted an escort on the two royal siblings of Rohan…

Éowyn smoothed her dress, took in a deep breath, then headed into the House. The beds were full of the injured and sick. Éowyn looked around and saw the blurs of healers working between the beds, tending them. Éowyn looked around for Ioreth, but could not find her. Instead, she headed into the Warden’s office.

“Lady Éowyn, I did not expect you tonight!” the Warden looked at her, and she detected that her appearance had made an impression.

“Good Warden, I am an apprentice in this House whose hands can be used,” Éowyn curtsied, “But I am also a woman of my word, and I gave Ioreth my word this morning you should have these hands for at least an hour.”

The Warden smiled, considered, then replied, “I believe we are again running low on soothing salves. Your mixture this morning was excellent, so please set your hands to making more. Ioreth will find you, and will take you to apply the salve to some of the afflicted.”

“I hope my poultice was also acceptable!” Éowyn couldn’t help but ask, she wanted badly to be good at this work.

“Ah yes! Yes, it was. But for many of our wards, they are not ready yet for poultice, so we are finding your mixtures are lasting us,” the Warden’s eyes softened at Éowyn’s demonstration of self-doubt, “Go now, and thank you.”

Éowyn nodded, then headed around the periphery to the herb cabinet. The eyes of the afflicted were all on her as she made her way over, and she wondered if the dress she wore still glowed of its own inner light.  _ The White Lady of Rohan comes to the House of Healing _ , she smiled. When she made it to the cabinet, she could see that indeed her prepared poultice was still in sufficient supply, but they were running woefully low on soothing salve. Éowyn immediately set to work, mixing together the herbs with mortar and pestle, then taking an appraising sniff to ensure that it had been mixed properly. Before she knew it, she had nearly restocked the supply she had created in the morning.

Suddenly Éowyn froze. Something had made her insides jump; she was being watched. Éowyn looked around and she saw him, standing near the corridor into the eastward facing private rooms, looking at her. Of  _ course _ he was here.

_ You are Éowyn Wraithbane, Shieldmaiden of the Riddermark, the one who laughed at Fear and smote him to the ground, _ Éowyn closed her eyes,  _ Aragorn has no power over you. _

And slowly Éowyn opened her eyes. Aragorn had not moved, and so she met his look, projecting the defiance of that afternoon. She was a healer, and a hero. She was beloved by the people of Gondor, and by its Steward. She willed herself to hear Faramir’s whispers in her ear, and unprompted, she could feel his warmth fill her. No, there was nothing Aragorn could do to her anymore. She was impervious.

“I heard you were a vision awaiting the host girl!” Ioreth broke their standoff, and Éowyn smiled at her.

“Faramir loaned me some truly remarkable effects from his mother,” Éowyn blushed. She thought of Faramir, looking at the relics of his sorrow over his mother, then picturing her in each. It brought love to her heart.

“Well then, please follow me girl. We head to the private rooms for now, you’ve caused enough distraction in here. ...And there is someone here I believe needs you more than any,” Ioreth winked, but there was sadness in her eyes.

Éowyn nodded, and was relieved to see Ioreth beckon her to the west corridor. They made their way to the end, where Éowyn recognized the man in the bed. It was Gamling, one of the King’s Riders. He was grievously injured, and Éowyn could see that he was in immense pain. She somehow knew that he was not long for this world, this man, who she had known her entire life. When Gamling saw Éowyn, he held out his hand to her, and Éowyn took it.

“I’m sorry Éowyn. I failed your King,” Gamling did not break her gaze, and she saw fear and despair in his eyes. Éowyn tightened her grip on the old man’s hand, then leaned in close to him.

“My dear friend. You never failed your King. He died a glorious death, saving his ally and helping free the people of Middle Earth from evil,” Éowyn willed the light in her heart into the old knight, “And you helped deliver me to that place, you helped raise me into a Shieldmaiden who could stand up to the Wraith. Théoden looks down at us all from the Halls of our Ancestors beaming with pride. You are a worthy knight, and I am gladdened to get to have called you my friend.”

Ioreth had stepped back, and Éowyn then knelt beside the old knight. She could see relief come into his eyes, as if she had absolved him of his last and worst sin.

“Tell my sons and daughters that I love them. Tell them that… I did it all for them.” the light in Gamling’s eyes was starting to fade, and Éowyn knew he would be gone soon. She would not cry, not yet.

“I will tell them of their brave father. I will tell them how much you loved them. I will tell them that your fight saved Middle Earth from doom. I promise you I will tell them all these things, my brave friend,” Éowyn moved closer to him, and did not let go of his hand. She would be there, projecting her comfort into him until the very end, until the gift of men was upon him.

At that moment, Éowyn began singing a lullaby she remembered her mother used to sing, a song of the Westfold. Warm and soothing, as if the singer were holding your hand and leading you off into sleep. She sang in Rohirric, and felt Gamling’s grip on her hand weaken, but he never broke eye contact. Until… he was gone. Éowyn gently closed his eyes and stood up. She could feel a pit in her stomach, an upwelling of despair. Gamling. One of the knights who delighted in sparring with a sprightly young Éowyn. One who had never taken it too easy on her, who always paused to teach, one more constant in her life, was now gone.

_ This world is changing _ , Éowyn breathed deeply, and found that the sobs and ringing ears she had expected had not materialized. A matronly hand was now on her shoulders, and she saw Ioreth.

“We knew when we saw him that he would not last the night. I am sorry that I put you in here unprepared, but I knew he was of Rohan, and thought you could ease his passing,” Ioreth squeezed Éowyn even harder, and Éowyn could hear emotion in her voice, “And I was right. Part of our job is helping those who are suffering and cannot be healed let go. You did this for Gamling tonight.”

“How many more do you think?” Éowyn looked straight ahead, willing the grief down.

“He is the only one beyond our care who made it all the way to Minas Tirith,” Ioreth’s voice broke, “Thank you for giving him light and love in his last moments.”

Éowyn sniffled, and laid her head on Ioreth’s shoulder. She would need to tell Éomer, and would write down Gamling’s last words to bring to his children. They should know the tale of their father, there making the world a better place until the bitter end, until the world did not need him anymore. Éowyn realized then that the original King’s riders had now all perished. Either on the Pelennor or in that final battle. It truly was just Éomer and her now. She shuddered, patted Ioreth’s hands, and turned.

“I will make sure that news of this makes it to my brother. Let the healers know that I will see to his effects,” Éowyn’s voice was businesslike, but then it cracked, “He used to swordplay with me.”

A sniffle at the door startled the two women. Éowyn’s gut lurched. The haunted gray gaze of Aragorn was on Éowyn again. This time she had truly been caught off guard. What was he doing here? Now? In this moment of pain?

“He fought bravely, to the very end. I watched him take a blade that was meant for your brother,” Aragorn spoke the words matter-of-factly, but Éowyn heard slightest waver in his voice, reflecting the sick sadness she felt in her gut.

“He was a good man and a great knight,” she blanked out her voice,  _ how dare he _ invade this moment.

Éowyn needed to get out of that room, so with a gentle nudge she tugged Ioreth’s hand from her shoulder, and walked right past the King. Pity or scorn or something else, she did not have the heart to face it now. Her heart would not fall into the shadow, but she could feel her grief well up. She went to the pool of water for the healers, and splashed some on her face, then composed herself. Gamling. Brave and ashamed. She hoped desperately that her words had eased his passing. This was part of her job now. Comforting those before they accepted the gift of men. She bottled up her grief, she would find Faramir tonight, and they would speak of their sorrow together. When she turned around, she saw Ioreth had followed her out and was looking at her.

“There’s a story there girl,” Ioreth’s look was one of concern, “One of you and the King.”

“Yes,” Éowyn blinked. What should she say? All? Some? Ioreth was not exactly known for keeping secrets, but it would probably be worse letting her speculate.

“He saved Rohan, but not me. His indifference to me is why I rode for Gondor,” Éowyn kept her voice monotone, and steady, “He confirmed that my cage as a woman was unescapable, save for death. And so I sought it.”

“So if he had not treated you with indifference, you would not have rescued us by slaying the Witch-King,” Ioreth answered matter-of-factly, “And we would not have your healing hands in our House. Nor would you have healed our Steward.”

Éowyn had no retort. She had never thought of it that way. Without Aragorn’s scorn, she would not have become a healer, she would not have slayed a Nazgûl, she would not be trothplighted to her beloved Faramir. Everything would be different, and she would not be set on this wonderful path she was on. Without Aragorn’s scorn, Éomer may have perished, and she would not have found the kinship of Merry.

Perhaps she could forgive Aragorn after all…

For the rest of her shift, Éowyn saw no more of the King. Ioreth had Éowyn put healing salves on soldier’s wounds, and she saw hope and reverence in so many eyes that afternoon. She thanked them and smiled, and spoke of their bravery. But when the hour was up, Éowyn could only think of Gamling.

“You did well today,” Ioreth placed her hands on Éowyn’s shoulders “We will see you tomorrow. Tonight, it is time to celebrate with your family. Again my dear, thank you.”

Éowyn put her hands on older woman’s, “Thank you for bringing me to him. If seeing my face eased his passing even a little bit, I have done good work.”

“The King is a great healer you know, perhaps you can forgive him his indifference. Gondor would thank him for it, because it brought you to us.” Ioreth hugged her (Ioreth never hugged her…), then turned and headed back into the House.

Éowyn sighed, washed her hands, and walked to the waiting Beregil to change and ready herself for the merry reunion with her brother, her Hobbits, her Steward, and the Prince.

_ I will need you tonight Faramir, for I fear the burden of my sorrow will be great _ , Éowyn thought, but her sorrow could wait, at least until the joy of the reunions passed. Then she remembered she would need to tell Éomer of Gamling, perhaps she’d leave the details of the nature of his injuries out. For now at least.

_ We live in at the dawn of an age, it is a time for the intermingling of joy and sorrow _ , Éowyn thought, and after dressing, set off for the Steward’s.


	12. Faramir 3

Faramir thought Éowyn was playing some joke on him when she’d said it.  _ Faramir will be able to take care of you until my return _ . She meant Éomer to kill him, that was the only explanation. But no, Éowyn’s instinct as always was perfect. There they were, bonded over their love for Éowyn, and swinging swords.

Éomer was good with a sword. His movements were natural, and practiced. It took Faramir a while, but soon he could see the pattern to Éomer’s steps. Éomer seemed to prefer certain sword strokes depending on Faramir’s advance, which made him predictable. Then all else fell away and Faramir could see the dance, hear the music of the singing swords. It was beautiful. He understood why so many liked combat, it was a choreographed dance of the grotesque, where the price of missing a step was injury or death. Faramir would never enjoy watching his sword take lives, even the cursed half-lives of Orcs. But this, crossing blades and matching steps with such a man as this young King, his beloved’s brother, was nothing short of delightful.

Fighting Éomer reminded him of those days of sparring with Boromir, but now Faramir had taken the lead. He found himself slowing his motions, showing Éomer specific types of parries and attacks, and watching the younger man mark him, as Boromir had once done for him. When Éomer called him out for this, Faramir was transported back to the guilty look on his brother’s face when he himself had called out the same. Faramir now was the protective one, taking care of his younger brother. When Imrahil joined them, Faramir felt naught but happiness. His father and brother were now gone, but he was not without family.

“To the new dawn.”  
“To new love.”  
“To new kin.”

The men clanked their glasses, and drank the Amroth mead. Faramir could see a glint in Imrahil’s eye as he looked upon Éomer. There was something more to it than simple affection. Faramir wondered…

“Every year I gave Denethor a bottle of our best mead for his birthday. I now wonder if he drank any of it,” Imrahil looked at the glass of amber liquid that he was savoring, “Personally, I think the return of the host is the perfect reason to raid the Steward’s cabinets.”

Faramir laughed merrily, “It shall be done!”

In that moment, Faramir could see the wrath on his father’s face at the insolence of his second son sharing his precious stores. A shadow crossed Faramir’s mind at the thought, and he felt the fire and ash rising up in him. Both Imrahil and Éomer had noticed.

“What troubles you?” Imrahil was looking carefully at Faramir, having guessed some of the meaning.

“Later tonight,” Faramir demurred. He wanted to tell Éowyn first, “For now, shall we find the most lavish item in those stores and enjoy it?”

Imrahil held Faramir’s eyes, but then wrinkles formed, and he let himself smile. A light knock at the door interrupted them, and Faramir was up and hurrying forward. He would recognize that light knock anywhere. When he opened the door, there she was. She was as beautiful in a plain dress as in his mother’s, and he saw she had braided her hair with his leather strap. When she did that, his heart leapt, but then he saw the shadows of sorrow in her eyes. Faramir’s smile changed quickly to a look of concern. After a bow of thanks to Beregil, whom he relieved for the night. Faramir closed the door.

“Min elskede, tell me your sorrows,” Faramir brushed his finger over Éowyn’s jaw.

“Tonight, beloved,” came Éowyn’s reply, “though you will know much of it for the news I must now share with my brother.”

“What is it sister?” Éomer had swooped in, drawn both by the excitement of seeing Éowyn, but moreso from Éowyn’s sadness.

“Gamling,” Éowyn’s eyes began to fill with tears, “He did not make it.”

Éomer’s look of concern became grave, and sad. He bowed his head, and Faramir could see tears in the man’s eyes. He instinctively backed up so the siblings could share an embrace.

“The last of the King’s Riders. He saved my life more times than I can count,” Éomer held Éowyn, his forehead to her’s, “He- he was gravely injured... I had hope that the House of Healing could work a miracle.”

“I was with him, at the end. I sang him the lullaby of the Westfold. And told him how brave he is, I hope that I eased his passing,” Éowyn’s eyes were now full of tears too, “We must tell his children of his valor and his bravery. And I promised him I would give them his last words - that he loves them so much…”

“His children will be taken care of, I promise you sister,” Éomer now looked solemnly at Éowyn.

Faramir wanted to hold her, to pull her in and never let the cruel things that crawl the Earth affect her again. He wanted to protect her with his love.  _ Both of them _ , he realized. And in exchanging a look with his uncle, realized he was not the only person in the room feeling that level of love and compassion for the golden siblings. But Faramir was also in awe of Éowyn. Singing a lullaby to a dying man was nothing short of brilliant. Éowyn had turned from her brother now, and she was making for Faramir’s arms. Faramir pulled her in close, and placed a kiss upon her brow. This woman, who he would spend the rest of his life with. He wanted to absorb every last bad thing that had ever happened to her. To pour his love into her so she saw the remarkable person that she was. He didn’t care if Éomer was staring daggers into him right now, she needed him, and he was there. He would always be there.

Éomer slumped back down into his chair. The group’s enjoyment of the Amroth mead diminished thanks to the injection of this reality. It may have been a new dawn, but it was won at a terrible cost. Imrahil had made his way over to the young King, and had his hand on Éomer’s back.

“I lost half of my company. Knights who had served me since they were young squires. Cut down before their time. And here am I, lingering,” Imrahil looked sad, “The old man, given his life when so many younger and more deserving die.”

“Perhaps because all in this room owe their lives to you,” Éowyn was looking at the Prince, her eyes keen and intense, but she still held Faramir, “Was it not you who rode to Faramir in his retreat?.. Was it not you who provided support to my brother when he charged into the enemy’s lines, full of vengeance?.. And was it not you who recognized that I’d not yet succumbed and got me to the House of Healing? For it was you to whom we the young all owe our lives, you are the reason we sit in this house and enjoy this mead.”

Imrahil looked astounded. Had he not thought on this until now? Éomer had also turned to the prince, and placed his hand on the prince’s, still on his shoulder. Éowyn then continued, “That soon I will invite you into my family through my beloved is something that I shall cherish.”

Éowyn released Faramir then, and went over to the old Prince, who now had tears in his eyes too.

“That may not be the only connection sister,” Éomer was looking at Éowyn, a shy smile on his face. Faramir looked at the Éomer, then at Imrahil. And it dawned on him. That look of fatherly devotion to the young King.  _ Lothíriel _ . Lothíriel was coming with her brothers to Minas Tirith. She was coming to meet Éomer.

Faramir let out a snort, he couldn’t help it. His sly and wonderful uncle. Poor Éomer would not know what hit him.

“Éomer, I do not understand,” Éowyn looked at her brother.

“My cousin Lothíriel is arriving with the Amroth host tomorrow, correct uncle?” Faramir’s eyes were sparkling, and he could feel Éowyn glare at him. He couldn’t help but grin, this was wonderful.

Imrahil’s eyes came alight then, and Éomer had turned a deep shade of red. Éowyn’s look of confusion had turned into irritation, but then Faramir saw the light flicker behind in her eyes too.

“Lothíriel.” Éowyn said the word clearly and carefully, and with every syllable could see the red hue of Éomer’s face darken.

“It’s- I’m just meeting her okay? The prince spoke so highly of her… and… I don’t know.” Éomer was flustered, and Éowyn was loving every moment of it.

“Brother, perhaps tomorrow you’d join me for another round of sparring and lunch,” Faramir grinned at the frazzled young King. As this man was to be his brother, Faramir would do everything he could to prepare him before the cyclone that was his youngest cousin arrived.

Éomer nodded at him. Faramir then exchanged a loaded look with his uncle. The idea of Lothíriel marrying Éomer? It… somehow… worked. Though it was also clear, that just as Faramir was hopeless ever to deny Éowyn anything she desired, Éomer would fall under a similar spell.

“Poor brother,” Éowyn had gently held Éomer’s hand.

“I don’t want to talk about this any longer,” the red color in Éomer’s face had not diminished.

“Very well, not tonight perhaps,” Imrahil beamed, “Éowyn, would you like to hear the story of how my beloved sister and Faramir’s mother came to have that circlet and bewitching white dress you donned at our welcome?”

Faramir blanched. He thought he had made sure that there were no memories of that dress in Gondor. Had he made a mistake? What had he missed?

“I would love to hear their stories,” Éowyn smiled, and beckoned Faramir to join them. Faramir anxiously followed.

“I cannot think of anything so fitting for you, my soon-to-be-niece,” Imrahil was smiling broadly, which put Faramir a bit more at ease, “That white dress was the very dress in which Finduilas met Denethor, and the moment he saw her in it, he was hopeless for her.”

Faramir could feel a shadow form in his mind. The dress Éowyn wore was the one that previewed his mother and father’s love, and ultimately, their doom. Éowyn gave Faramir the slightest of glances, but he read in it that she knew what he was feeling.

“..that you should wear it having won the love of my nephew brought such joy to my heart, and I daresay would have brought a smile to Finduilas’s face as well. I’d never have thought anyone could look so beautiful as she did in that dress, but then there you were, the two of you, glowing in your love,” Imrahil was holding gaze with Éowyn as he spoke, “And the circlet you wore. A gift to Finduilas from King Thengel of Rohan. I don’t think you could have put a more tributary ensemble together if you had tried.”

Imrahil’s words were fighting Faramir’s dark thoughts of the doom of his mother and father, bathing it in the light of Éowyn. The circlet was Rohirric, he should have known. He would give Éowyn the entirety of his mother’s effects, that settled it. Éowyn’s love made him feel safe enough to grieve his mother. He could finally open that door and live in her memories, Éowyn’s light repelled the demons.

“Somehow, even so many years after her passing, your mother’s hand blessed your union Faramir,” Imrahil was now looking at his nephew thoughtfully, “She would have loved Éowyn. As I fear I do as well.”

A small but boisterous knock could be heard on the door, and Faramir knew who was waiting for them on the other side of the door. He leaped to his feet to personally welcome the two honored guests. Outside Merry and Pippin were smiling.

“My friends, please come in!” Faramir bowed to them, “Thank you for giving me the pleasure of your company.”

Both bowed in return, and came into the room. Merry ran immediately to Éowyn and gave her a bear hug. She then turned to Pippin, and took his small hands into her’s.

“Pippin Took, word has it that I have you to thank for the life of my betrothed,” she was looking earnestly in the Hobbit’s eyes, “Thank you.”

Pippin turned the slightest shade of red, then looked over at Faramir, questioningly.

“Beregond.” Faramir answered his unasked question, “That is how I know the whole of it”

Pippin looked relieved, but sad. Éomer and Imrahil looked over at Faramir, one with a look of confusion, the other with a look of both deep sadness and anger. Éowyn was to him in an instant, as was Merry. Éowyn wrapped her arms around his shoulders and drew him in, Merry’s hands were on his. Faramir looked into Éomer’s eyes. It seemed untoward for such a laden secret to sit unshared with the young King, a man who would be his brother soon enough.

“Denethor, Steward of Gondor, my father, did not die honorably. He set himself on fire… and attempted to do the same to me,” Faramir sighed, the fire was starting to burn in his mind and his ears had started ringing, Éowyn’s grip around him tightened, as did Merry’s, and he could feel their light and love fight back the flames, “Pippin, Beregond, and Mithrandir saved my life by stopping him before he succeeded.”

Pippin looked nearly as haunted as Faramir in that moment. Merry and Éowyn were aptly drawing the poison out of him once again, as they had so often in the House of Healing. Imrahil stood and walked to Faramir, joining Éowyn in embracing him. He could feel his uncle’s will now too, and knew that he was protected from this dark truth by people who deeply cared about him.

He should tell them about his dreams.  
_ Not yet _ .

Éomer rose from his seat, then walked directly to Faramir, causing Imrahil and the Hobbits to take steps back. When Éomer was eye-to-eye with Faramir, he cleared his throat, “Brother, the failings of a man, even a father, do not change the person I see in front of me. I am loathe to admit this, but you truly are worthy of my sister.”

And then he hugged him. A hug full of affection. A hug Faramir had only ever seen Éomer give to his sister. Éomer then pulled away from him, looked him in the eyes, and smiled. Faramir smiled back. Yes, this was his family.

“I fear that my admission may have put a damper on our merriment, but the cooks have outdone themselves, knowing they were cooking for the likes of you two,” Faramir winked and pointed to the Hobbits, “Shall we find our way to the dining room? There will be more time for sorrows later, but let us speak tonight of the things that bring us joy.”

Merry and Pippin both bolted forward, no doubt to preview the feast awaiting them. Imrahil gave Faramir a meaningful look, then headed in, followed by Éomer. Éowyn had lingered behind, holding Faramir at his waist.

“I love you min elskede, and I want to hear the whole of your sorrows tonight,” and she kissed his neck, and he could feel the shivers it sent down his spine.

Merry and Pippin turned out to be the life of any table they found themselves at. Pippin and Merry together relived the siege of Isengard on the limbs of Treebeard. Of finding the Entwash and taking turns growing inches until Mithrandir had stopped them. They spoke of their conspiracy with Sam to ensure that Frodo could not flee the Shire in the night without notice.

“And, if the Steward permits, we would like to tell the Tale of Boromir,” Pippin stood on his chair, and Merry pulled out his flute.

“Please tell us my friends,” Faramir smiled. He knew the memory of his brother would always be an intermingling of grief and joy, but he could not think of anyone more suited to tell the tale of his brave brother. Both Hobbits nodded, and their tale began.

The Hobbits’ telling of “Boromir the Brave” was immaculate. Boromir was Gondor, proud and resilient against the shadow. Fighting with the last of his breath to protect them, to protect Middle Earth. It was a song of beauty and sadness, the great horn of Gondor ringing through the battle, calling forth her allies to protect the smallest amongst them. Faramir could feel the tears welling up in his eyes, and found Éowyn’s hand was already in his. When the story ended, Faramir almost asked about their neglecting to mention Boromir’s fealty. And that was when he realized that they did not know. Perhaps only three in Middle Earth knew that secret…

“I dreamt of him, floating along the Anduin in an Elven boat, out to sea. His sword in his hand and an elven belt on his waist. His horn was all that was missing. He was at peace, resting for the first time in his life.” Faramir let the tear come to his eye.

“To Boromir,” Imrahil held up his glass.  
“To Boromir.” came the echoing reply around the table, and all drank deeply.

Finally it was time for the night to come to an end. All marvelled at the hot chocolate that Faramir had managed to procure, and the Hobbits took seconds. and thirds. Faramir said his final goodbyes to his friends, who headed back to their own houses. He sighed and closed the door. Back into his empty house, full of the memories of Denethor. He started up the staircase toward the Steward’s study. Just a couple more things to do tonight. Perhaps he would take the time to translate chapters four and five of  The Elven Arts of Healing for Éowyn.

Suddenly the hair on the back of Faramir’s neck pricked up. He was not alone in that house. Someone was there with him. Quiet footfalls. Fingering the dagger on his waist, Faramir swung around to face his intruder. Golden hair, braided, shimmering white dress spun from moonlight. Éowyn.


	13. Aragorn 3

Aragorn sat vigil, crushing athelas and looking into the peaceful faces of the two sleeping Hobbits before him. It seemed that both had finally started to sleep without thrashing. Neither had needed him to draw them from the shadows, something Aragorn considered a miracle. Sam and Frodo, the heroes of the Third Age. Two Hobbits who had marched into Mordor alone carrying the most evil thing that existed in during the Third Age of Middle Earth. If Aragorn had been given the choice, he would have given his life willingly for these two. But for now, watching them finally start to find peace was enough.

Gandalf had ended his watch earlier that afternoon, seeing that the two brave Hobbits were in good hands in the House of Healing. But Aragorn was not yet ready to let go. Letting go meant accepting his destiny, it meant accepting that everything was about to change. At least for a little while longer, he wanted to be Strider. To heal his friends and see the peace come into their faces. The healers had all rejoiced at seeing him again, knowing he to have been the one to heal their Steward, and their brave Shieldmaiden, and their brave Hobbit. It seemed that the three companions had made quite the impression.

Aragorn had taken to listening keenly to the healers’ conversations, and pieced together the time in the House of Healing after his host had marched forth. Éowyn had tried to storm from the House and make for the host, but had been stopped by the Steward. Then it seemed that the three were never seen apart from each other, sharing stories and tales together in the gardens. They’d cried together, talked together, and healed together. It seemed clear early on too of the burgeoning love between the Steward and the White Lady of Rohan, which the healers had taken to calling her after seeing her don a white dress. Faramir had fallen first, but was followed quickly by Éowyn.

“Did you hear? He came to her room to declare his love for her.”  
“Why do you think it took him days to do so?”  
“He thought her heart was with another.”  
“Oh that foolish man! It was so clear that she only had eyes for him!”

Aragorn had to steel his face to keep from smiling listening to the loose lips of the healers (men and women alike), as the love story of two kindred sorrows was painted before his eyes. As if their love was not apparent enough as they waited to greet him, the small stories of the two in that House was all it took for Aragorn to know that the sorrows that nearly caused them to succumb to the shadow would never have a hold on either of their hearts again.

The stories of the healers did not stop with the love of a Steward and a Shieldmaiden. They spoke extensively of Éowyn, the one who laughed in the face of Fear then smote him to the ground, then turned around and used those same hands to heal. The healers talked of Éowyn as if she were a particularly precious part of their family. A noble woman not afraid to work hard, who made all the beds in the great hall because that was where her hands were needed most. The affection of this place for Éowyn… it was overwhelming. Éowyn’s sorrows haunted Aragorn’s mind, even as he tried to will her away from his thoughts. He had almost killed her. How had he been so blind to miss what was standing there in front of him? Was he really so prejudiced that he had overlooked her gifts because she was a woman who’d stumbled into a crush on her rescuer?

_ Yes _ , Aragorn thought ruefully. He had been blind. And now he would live not only with her sorrows and darkest memories, but would hear wherever he walked, as King or as Ranger or as Healer, of the valiant Shieldmaiden, loved and revered by his people. He knew in time he would need to seek her out, if only for his own relief. The healers stories also restored his faith that such a remarkable person as Éowyn would find it in her heart to forgive him.  _ Would that be enough _ , he wondered, to stay his nightmares?

He wanted Arwen so badly. He willed his mind to feel her soft hand on his brow when he awoke in a cold sweat. Several times, he was even tempted to look into the palantír to see if she would come to him. He knew to do so was dangerous, as his mind was still too distracted with the thoughts of Éowyn’s sorrows to gaze into such a powerful object. Gandalf had noted his sorrows, but Aragorn had not confessed to whole of the cause. Longing for Arwen was satisfactory, but as it was Gandalf who had suggested that he draw the three back from the shadows, he did not want to burden the wizard with the knowledge that he was now bound to them.

Aragorn said one final set of prayers to the Valar for Sam and Frodo, and got up to leave the House of Healing. He would stay in a tent again tonight outside of the city, because he needed to wait for official word of his coming to be announced, as well as consent from the Steward. That was not all; he was not yet ready to fully surrender his life as a Ranger. A few more nights outside of the city would do him good, and there he could enjoy the company of Legolas and Gimli, away from the prying eyes of Gondor. But as he made his way out of the corridor, he saw her.

_ What is she doing here? _ Aragorn saw Éowyn was mixing herbs at the cabinet, and he saw she wore an apprentice cap. She was delaying her reunion with her brother to heal others. Remarkable.

As if sensing his presence, Éowyn looked around and found him, and he felt his gut lurch. She tensed at his gaze, then closed her eyes, finding calm. When she opened them again, he could feel her defiance and her fury. Toward him. But he sensed warmth there too, as if she had willed love in her heart to protect her. How terribly he had failed her. And yet, how phenomenal her rebound. Ioreth then stepped between them, getting Éowyn’s attention, and the moment was over.

If she really felt that visceral fury at him, how would he ever find her forgiveness?  _ He needed Arwen _ . She would know what to do. She would know what to say. She’d be able to tell him whether his desire for forgiveness was hopeless. Had his foolish indifference toward Éowyn lost him Faramir too? And Merry? Aragorn wanted to believe that this was not the case, that a fool’s mistake could always be remedied, but now he did not know. She was so young, and so traumatized. Well, if it took Éowyn ten years to forgive him, so he would wait. He’d waited for Arwen for 70.

Aragorn again was about to make for the exit when something compelled him to turn. He could often sense when someone was dying, and he felt the call toward the west corridor.

_ Gamling _ , he remembered. The old knight, one of the last of Théoden’s riders. A true knight of the Mark, riding with his new King, haunted by his failure to save his old King. When the battle had begun, Gamling was there at Éomer’s side, proving that only the most powerful fear Wraith in existence could impel him to abandon his King. And so it was that when an Orc ambushed Éomer, Gamling had thrown himself into the blade. He had saved his King, killed the Orc, and in the process doomed himself to death. Aragorn was so moved at the bravery of that knight. It was a miracle that he had made it all the way back to Minas Tirith still alive. But he was in agony.

Aragorn could feel a sadness and a warmth coming from Gamling’s room. Aragorn quickened his steps. There he saw her, kneeling at Gamling’s side, holding his hand and singing him the lullaby of the Westfold, using her light to gently walk him to his long sleep. Gamling’s face was full of relief and love. She had eased his passing.

When Ioreth came forward to embrace Éowyn, Aragorn knew that he was intruding, but he could not help it. He wanted her to know what that man did for her brother. So he spoke. He first sniffled, and absorbed the shock from the two startled women.

“He fought bravely, to the very end. I watched him take a blade that was meant for your brother,” Aragorn said the words, and with immense effort, stilled the tears that wanted to seep from his eyes.

“He was a good man and a great knight,” Éowyn’s words were polite but they were also wooden, and he could feel the wrath that was in her eyes.

She shrugged off Ioreth and pushed past them both. Ioreth looked apologetically at Aragorn, but then the look changed to one of contemplation.  _ Ioreth knows, _ Aragorn realized. She knew there was some history there between the two. He wondered what would come of this. Ioreth then carefully took her leave and followed Éowyn away. Aragorn stood there, looking at Gamling. The pain had drained from his face along with the life, leaving only peace. Another brave man cut down by the endless fight with the shadow. Another man who would not get to see his children experience the new dawn.

Aragorn dropped to his knees, and finally surrendered to the heaves looking for their escape. So many had died, so many had left, so many had sacrificed everything they were. And here he was, powerful and whole, fulfilling his destiny at last. The glorious King of Gondor, and of Arnor. A man hunted since he was young, but always loved and protected too. By no less than Elrond, Gandalf, and Galadriel. He balanced that against Éowyn, her mother dying rather than loving her, being hunted by a pitiful man with no hope and place to escape, watching the man who was father to her wither away through the poison of her hunter. Now singing a lullaby to a knight she had known since childhood, who had crossed swords with her, who in part had made her who she was. She gave her light to him and eased his passing. He thought of the two peacefully sleeping Hobbits who walked willingly to their deaths to save everyone, who’d challenged darkness and death, and faced it with open eyes. His sorrows were trivial compared to theirs. No, he would stop this foolishness. No more feeling sorry for himself. He was to be King, and a King could not show this kind of weakness.

With one final sniffle, Aragorn brought himself to his feet. Yes, he just needed Arwen. Then everything would be fine and she would heal his sorrows. He was ready to be King, but not tonight. Tonight he would just be a Ranger. Tonight he would just be Dúnedain, down in the camps laughing with Legolas and Gimli and Gandalf. So he went for one final glance at the sleeping Hobbits, then headed from the House of Healing, down through the many gates of the city, and out into the fields.


	14. Éowyn 4

Éowyn had nearly shouted out when she saw Faramir turn toward her, hand on his dagger, the training of a soldier. But as soon as he saw her, his look of fear had changed to a look of delight.

“I doubled back. I didn’t want to linger with so many eyes upon me, as I am not yet ready to say goodnight,” Éowyn said

Faramir came quickly down the steps and pulled her into him, kissing her intensely. Éowyn returned his kiss, and his intensity.  She wanted to keep kissing him, to touch him, but she could not suppress the pain and the sobs any longer. Faramir sensed this and pulled away, looking into her eyes.

“Tell me your sorrows min elskede,” he kissed her brow now, and she could feel her wretched pain lessen with his tenderness.

“Gamling. He taught me how to spar, not only when I was young and keen, but he doubled our practices when Wormtongue came. He couldn’t outright protect me in front of my uncle, so he showed me how to protect myself.” Éowyn could not contain the cries any longer, and so they came to her in great waves. Her knees weakened, and she found she was being held up solely by Faramir’s arms. He looked at her, his gray eyes full of love and concern. Éowyn finally regained her balance.

“Does the Steward’s garden have a glade?” she wanted to sit, to re-enact those dark nights under the sky in the House of Healing. That was where her heart opened to Faramir. That was where his love had had the most impact.

“Yes min elskede. Let me go get us a blanket to sit upon. I will be back,” Faramir had taken off nearly at a sprint, and with some brief rustling, was back, a warm blanket in hand.

They walked hand in hand into the garden, and Faramir lovingly spread the blanket into a small patch of grass near a willow tree. The Steward’s garden was beautiful, and when Éowyn looked up into the sky, she could see the stars. This was a place of solace, a place that her sorrows could be healed.

“Again, I will be back,” Faramir kissed her forehead and ran back into the House.

Éowyn settled herself onto the blanket, and shivered. She’d not brought a robe with her, and was loathe to go back to her apartment. She doubted she could sneak away from her brother quite so easily a second time. No sooner had she rubbed her hands together did Faramir reappear with a jug of wine, a robe, and a blanket in hand. She was not sure she needed this many reminders of why she loved him, at some point she feared she would burst. Faramir bent to her and gently placed the robe over her shoulders, then placed the blanket over the rest of her exposed dress.

“Wine in case we need it, and I do not want to be responsible for you catching cold. Ioreth would have my head,” Faramir smiled gently, but his look was still of concern.

Éowyn laid down under the blankets, and turned to face Faramir, who mirrored her.

“Watching him die… Faramir. It was so hard,” Éowyn let her tears flow, “He was there, the man who showed me how to fight, then he was gone. How do we ever get used to death?”

“We don’t min elskede,” Faramir replied, laying on his arms facing her, “It’s okay for us to feel pain and sorrow, to miss the people we love when they pass on. You gave Gamling the most remarkable gift I could imagine, you gave him forgiveness and grace, and sang to him so his passing was not one of fear, but of familiarity. The lullaby you sang, did your mother sing it to you?”

“...Yes…”

“Then I daresay that his mother probably also sang it to him. You gave him his mother’s love in the moment he needed it most.”

Faramir leaned in and kissed her forehead as he said this. This was one of those moments where he was using his will to let her see herself as he saw her, but that was not what she needed. Well, she wasn’t sure what she needed. Éowyn laid on her back and looked upward. The stars really were beautiful. Faramir watched her, then followed suit.

“Do you think that they are all up there, looking down at us?” Éowyn found Faramir’s hand, and held it.

“I don’t know, but I hope so. There is a lot of lore written about receiving the gift of men. That the mortal children of Eru Ilúvatar leave Arda to be with him,” Faramir was contemplative, then he stopped, and just looked up, “But I like to think that my mother and brother look down and see us all, and that they are smiling...”

“Sometimes I wish we were Elves. Then our families would never be so far away that we would not see them again,” Éowyn could feel the tears in her eyes.

“We would have to live and experience every bad memory, every small pain, everything from the whole of our lives until the world ends,” Faramir squeezed her hand, “Mortality was a gift. A gift of a new start, a gift of forgetting.”

“Arda is the elves’ cage,” Éowyn replied. She had never thought about it that way before.

“And the stories of our histories get to forget the ugly things. The Shieldmaiden of Rohan who rode to deliver the people of Gondor, winning the love of its Steward,” Faramir was looking at her again, “Written and sung and celebrated. The glory of Théoden King, with no mention of the poison that was drawn out of Meduseld.”

“Gamling’s story will be the one of bravery, of sacrificing himself for his King,” Éowyn smiled, thinking on Éomer and the old knight, “Not of fleeing before the Wraith.”

Faramir stopped, and studied her, “How did you come to know that min elskede?”

Éowyn paused, then replied, “Aragorn was in the House of Healing. He was the one who told me.”

Faramir closed the distance between them then, pulling her close. Surrounding her with his protective love. But Ioreth’s words were echoing in her mind. Were it not for his scorn, she would not be there. Faramir would not be holding her right now. It comforted her. Something had changed in the House of Healing. She could feel her fury at Aragorn give way, but to what, she did not know.

“Something has changed in you,” Faramir was looking at her, she did not mind that he was reading her.

“Ioreth spoke words so true they’ve pierced me,” Éowyn replied, “Aragorn’s scorn is what led me to you.”

Those few words were all they needed, and Éowyn closed the final distance between the two of them, bringing her hand to Faramir’s cheek and kissing him. Alone under the stars, smelling Faramir’s scent, feeling his arms around her and his lips and his mouth, Éowyn wanted to freeze time and live in that moment forever. She let her hands wander Faramir freely, combing his hair, touching his shoulders, his neck, then his back and his stomach. Faramir tensed under her probing touches, then began leaning into them. His skin felt good, and his muscles felt solid under her fingers. Éowyn yearned to stick her hands underneath Faramir’s tunic to continue her exploration.  _ Not tonight _ . The glimmer of a memory was in the corner of her mind.

“Faramir,” Éowyn stopped abruptly, “Tell me your sorrows.”

Faramir caught his breath, and Éowyn could see the desire in his eyes had quickly cleared away, and was replaced by something else. Sadness. His sorrows, that he promised he would share with her tonight. Her intuition remembered before her waking mind had.

“My father haunts my mind Éowyn,” Faramir sighed, but did not relinquish his hold on her, “In the House of Healing, I knew the whole of his demise. But now, it is as if inheriting his title has made me a thrall to the last moments of his life.”

Horror struck Éowyn. How long had he been keeping this inside? She pulled herself closer, feeling their bodies in contact. She willed him to continue, he obliged.

“I have dreams of fire around me and ash in my mouth. I try to move, try to scream, and all I see his him, looking at me through the flames.” Faramir had started trembling, and Éowyn knew what visions were passing in front of his eyes in that moment. She knew those dreams. “When I put on that cursed  _ ring _ , it burns my hand. His memory is everywhere in this place, mostly stern and indifferent. But now, I also see his face, twisted and mad, ringed in fire.”

“How long have you been suffering min elskede?” Éowyn pulled her forehead to his, and looked into his eyes, filled with fear and despair, and guilt.

“Since… since… I left the House of Healing. At first, only a spectre, but every day, they grow more intense,” tears were coming into his eyes now, “they’ve become my constant nightmare. I- I have not been sleeping…”

Éowyn did not know what to do in that moment. She wanted to comfort him, to pull those memories from his mind. She wanted to find the right words to make him know that he was safe. Safe with her.

An idea came to her.

“I used to dream of getting pulled down into black water, where I knew that the Witch-King was waiting for me. I always looked up and saw my mother’s face. I tried to scream, to hold out my hand, but she never took it.” Éowyn thought to mention Aragorn turning and walking away from her too, but no, that was no longer part of her nightmares, “Then one night, there I was, filled with dread and dying under the water, and a hand thrust in and rescued me. And it was you. You kissed me and I knew that I’d never have that fear again. Because you were always there to pull me from the water.”

Faramir looked into her, holding on to her every word.

“Even in your mind, I will always be there to pull you out of the fire Faramir. Always.” Éowyn leaned to him, slowly, then kissed his brow, then his tears, then finally, his lips.  _ I promise you min elskede, I will always be here to draw away the poison. _ She wished that they were already married, that they shared a bed, so that if that dream ever haunted his mind again, she would be there the very moment he woke, to kiss it away. To remind him that he was loved, that she would be his constant. That she would protect him from the fire and indifference of his father.

She knew that she could not sleep with Faramir until they were wed. But there had to be something else she could do for him. Éowyn thought more, and remembered something that Beregil had told her. That in his dreams, hearing her laughter and Faramir’s encouragement had turned the tables on his nightmares. It made him understand the nightmare was only that. The shadow had passed, and seeing the two of them had been part of what diminished those visions. She wondered…

“Min elskede, are your visions strongest when you are in the Steward’s office?” she would not use his father’s name, for that study was now  _ Faramir’s _ study.

“Yes,” Faramir wore a puzzled look.

“Each day, I have healers rounds, but each day too, I must set a lot of time aside to study the texts of the healing arts. Perhaps I will take my studies up in the Steward’s office, and then can practice my healing arts when those dark shadows try to take you,” Éowyn smiled and spoke softly to him, “That it gives me further excuse to be near you is simply an extra benefit.”

Faramir was silent for a long time, then he smiled a relieved smile, but one still full of pain, “you are a miracle in my life Éowyn. I love you… Yes, I should think there is nothing I would want more than your company in that office.”

“And min elskede?” Éowyn caressed Faramir’s jaw, making sure she had his full attention.  
“Yes beloved.”   
“Please do not hide sorrows such as those from me.”

Faramir laughed, but the laugh was swallowed by a cry. He looked nearly as stricken as when she’d opened her door on him in the House of Healing those weeks ago, the night they’d declared their love.

“I promise.”

Éowyn pulled Faramir again to her mouth, and she kissed him with depth and hunger. She willed her love into him in their embrace, combing through his hair, and continuing on in her exploration of his exquisite form. She thought of this man, tall and powerful, nakedly vulnerable with her, and her heart filled, knowing that this was only a preview of their bliss, for theirs would be a lifetime of love.

“Éowyn…” Faramir pried himself away from her, his voice heavy with desire, “I fear if we continue down this rapturous path…”

Éowyn laughed, “do you think me wanton Steward of Gondor?”

“N-No… Every moment in your presence makes me want to have more. But I want to wait. Our wedding day will be the most blessed day of my life, and one I have waited my lifetime for. I would wait for just a while longer, for you,” Faramir’s words were poetry, as if he had been rehearsing them for just this moment.

“Faramir, do you think that small previews of a wedding night will set us on an unrestrainable path?” Éowyn wanted to kiss him for his reserve, “Let yourself have these small moments of joy, and trust both in yourself, and in me. For I trust you wholly, with my heart, and with my honor.”

Her words broke him again, and Faramir pulled her in once more, kissing her greedily. Faramir had let his hands comb through her hair now, and shared the exploratory touches of her skin that she’d used upon him. She could feel something relax, and joy overtake him as they kissed. His touches were tender and wanting, but never insistent. He loved her and followed her lead. She knew what their future held, knew that at some point, it was possible that her memories of the stables would well up to haunt her again, but not in this moment. It was also then that she realized Faramir was keeping his hands far from her neck.  _ You wonderful man _ , Éowyn thought, and pulled him ever closer. He was what she wanted. He would keep her safe. And she would do the same for him.

Finally, Éowyn gently stayed their revelry and sat up. A grin across her face so large it hurt her muscles.

“Min elskede, I believe it is time for me to go. You’ve cured my sorrows for the night and given me sweet memories on which to dream,” Éowyn started getting to her feet, Faramir was not far behind, “I hope that I have done the same for you - let your haunted dreams find me there too, pulling you out of your fire.”

“I do not think I should be able to think of anything except you in this garden for the foreseeable future min elskede,” Faramir still looked as if he had been swept under a tidal wave of joy, “Your brother and I spar tomorrow for lunch. Perhaps I will see you too in the Steward’s office?”

“Yes, you will,” Éowyn gave Faramir’s cheek a soft and lingering kiss.

“Now, I believe we need to get you back to your quarters,” Faramir had a conspiratorial grin on his face, “So that the whole of Gondor is not whispering.”

“Let them whisper.” Éowyn threw a hand up, she did not care what they said. She knew that she had her honor, but then she thought of the whisperings of Wormtongue, and the look of pain in her brother’s eyes, “No, perhaps it is best for this to be the latest you and I are seen together alone until our wedding night. Though I will risk whispers if you ever keep something like fire dreams bottled up again.”

Faramir looked guilty, and sad. Éowyn had a suspicion that her absence had not gone unmarked. No, Éomer would know. And he would be waiting for her.

“Give me a dagger and trust that if someone tries to bring me harm, my training as a Shieldmaiden will dispatch them,” Éowyn did not want to see what Éomer would do if Faramir walked her to her door, “Your house has a view of my path, and I promise to call out if something is amiss.”

Faramir looked as if he was about to argue, but held his tongue.  _ Good. _

He sighed, and ran upstairs. Faramir returned with a leather belt, and a small but well maintained dagger. He looked fraught, but Éowyn would not let him come with her. She secured the dagger belt to her waist.

“Go watch my path min elskede. I will see you tomorrow. I love you,” with one final kiss, she set out back to her quarters. A light in the Steward’s office told Éowyn that Faramir was watching her every step, she smiled.

Before she made it to her door, she knew he would be there, waiting. Éowyn took one quick breath, readied herself for the inevitable confrontation, then opened the door.

“Hello brother.”


	15. Éomer 4

It was immediate that he realized she had not joined their sortie back to the guest houses. She had gone back to the Steward’s. Perhaps they just needed to quickly say their own goodbyes, so he waited. And when his waiting went from minutes to an hour, Éomer worried and raged. He’d just started to trust this man, and what had they been doing? He’d told Faramir that if he hurt his sister, Éomer would kill him. And now, late into the night Éomer sat, waiting.

“Hello brother.” Éowyn had not been taken by surprise by his presence, and her words were almost amused. He did not like this, he was getting tired of their chess match. No, not this time.

“How long have you and the Steward been…” he couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence  
“Been _what_ ” Éowyn’s eyes flashed a warning  
“Been… been… _familiar_ ,” Éomer willed the pictures of it out of his mind.  
Éowyn laughed ruefully. No, this was not going as Éomer had expected.

“Why does it matter to you if we were being  _ familiar _ ?” Éowyn was enjoying this, and she had expected him to do this, “We are betrothed, and but months from saying our vows.”

“Because…”  
Crap, Éomer did not know, but in his mind he saw that cursed night. He saw that man lying on top of his sister. He heard her screams of primal fear. He saw his own hand grabbing that  _ filth _ and pulling him off of her. Then everything went red, and he could remember no more.

“Brother?” Éowyn’s look had changed. Had she read what he had been thinking? Éowyn walked to him, and took his hand into hers, “Faramir and I spoke of our sorrows tonight. Of my grief over Gamling and of his nightmares. We sought the comfort of each other’s souls, as we have on many previous nights. My honor and his remain intact, and will, through when we say our vows. In this, you have my word.”

“Éowyn… I was… so c-close… to failing you that night,” Éomer could hear his voice tremble, he never could withhold his vulnerability from his sister, “I- I think about it. all the time. That I did not keep you safe.”

“And yet you rescued me even then dearest brother,” Éowyn spoke softly, still holding his hand, “And I am safe.”

Éomer hugged her then, and let the tears slip from his eyes. That act. One that he so desired, but all he could see was her fear when he thought about it. It was not something beautiful, but a conquest against one who was defenseless. If Faramir had been fucking his sister, she would only feel fear.

Men on campaign would often talk about the women that they had taken, bragging about the act and what they’d gotten those women to do. Éomer had certainly thought about it, but he had never acted upon those urges himself. Something about taking that from someone so defenseless had always made his skin crawl. He would think upon Éowyn, and Wormtongue, following her from room to room. Looking at her the way his men looked at women. And he would have to stay his hand and his mouth, because sometimes the voices of those men talking about fucking those women became the voice of Wormtongue, and it sickened him. If Lothíriel were to become Éomer’s wife, would he have to look upon her in his moment of bliss to see in her only pain and fear? The begetting of children is paramount for a King, and a noble sacrifice made by wives. Yet he was not sure that he could do it. Not after those years of watching Wormtongue haunt his sister. Not after  _ that night _ .

“Tell me your sorrows Éomer,” Éowyn had not let go of his hand, nor his eyes.

“Are you afraid of… well… your wedding night?” Éomer looked at Éowyn,  _ will you be afraid like you were when Wormtongue tried to take you? _ He left the second part unsaid, but Éowyn read it in his mind.

“Not at all,” Éowyn did not drop her eyes from his, she held them, so he could see, so he could understand, “For women, enjoying what is given freely is entirely different than being taken.”

A blush came on Éowyn’s cheeks. Éomer imagined perhaps his cheeks were turning a similar color.

“Gríma took,” Éowyn continued, “Faramir gives. And Faramir never takes.”

“What if… what if  _ I _ take?” the words were out before Éomer could contain them.

“Darling brother,” Éowyn spoke sternly, but there was light in her eyes, “I don’t think you could ever take what was not given freely. Your heart is light and your love runs deep. You are also now a valiant and golden-hearted King. You need not take any Queen who does not give of herself freely and with enjoyment.”

“How- how will I know? That she wants me to … to… ?” Éomer stalled, and coughed, “How will I know that she loves me?”

Éowyn laughed musically, and kindly.

“Well, I do not know Lothíriel, or women other than myself, but…” Éowyn looked out into a space beyond Éomer, “She will find excuses to touch you. Just small touches, a caress of the arm, a pinch of the cheek, maybe a tap on the shoulder. She will come up with reasons to be in your presence, sometimes even bordering on ridiculous. When she smiles at you, her whole body will smile, into her eyes. She will want to hear your sorrows, and will listen to them intently. And she will do small things for you, things that show you she was listening.”

“Does Faramir do that for you?” Éomer looked keenly at his sister, who was now smiling through her whole body.

“Yes, he does.” Éowyn refocused her eyes on Éomer, but she was still distant, thinking upon her betrothed, “I suppose that both who are in love do those things.”

“And… do you seek his touch?” Éomer and Éowyn both looked slightly embarrassed as Éomer said it, but he pressed on. He wanted to know, and she was the only person he trusted enough to ask.

“Very much so…. Do you… really want to hear this?” Éowyn looked uncomfortable, but he could see the love there too, encouraging him on.

“Yes.”

“Okay, though I must make you promise not to try to kill any Gondorian Stewards,” Éowyn’s eyes twinkled. She did not have to say it, Éomer would not try to kill Faramir… though perhaps he would put some more effort into their sparring tomorrow…

“I promise.”

“He smells like leather and soap. When I smell it, I fill up with love. I like the feeling of his skin. And I like his hands on me. He’s gentle and steady. Makes me feel desired… and safe. I like when he looks at me and there is fire in his eyes. It makes me want more. I’m not afraid of his desire, I want it. I seek it out. I think about it. I want him to kiss me, because it feels good to kiss him, to be kissed, to touch him, to be touched. I can’t imagine our wedding night will be anything short of blissful brother,” Éowyn looked thoughtfully into his eyes, “And if Lothíriel is truly worthy of you, then she will want and feel the same things. There will never be fear in her to be touched by you, and she will crave every moment of it. You will make her feel safe. And if it is anything different than that, then you should seek to find a Queen who seeks your love and your touch, because you deserve that sort of love.”

“Imrahil has told me his daughter is beautiful. He thinks that she is a lot like you, only happier,” Éomer said, and Éowyn laughed, “Though perhaps he underestimated your own happiness sister?”

Éomer smiled inwardly. A princess with the joy of Imrahil and the will of his sister. He would never survive. And he hoped that Imrahil was right, that he and Lothíriel were an excellent match. That they may find love, like his sister did. He already loved the prince as family, and hoped that the happiness that radiated from Imrahil was a trait he passed onto his daughter.

“You shall find out tomorrow brother!” Éowyn had a mischievous smile on her face, “I will try to make my duties in the House of Healing quick, so I can be present when the Amroth host arrives. But now, darling brother, I should like to sleep. May I find you in the morning to break our fasts together?”

Éomer nodded, then realized he was in  _ her _ apartment and jumped to his feet. He pulled Éowyn in for a bear hug, feeling the familiar comfort of her in his arms.

“I love you sister,” he said, “And thank you… for… listening… to your ridiculous brother.”

“I will always be here to listen to you Éomer,” Éowyn kissed him on the cheek, and he turned to walk next door.

As Éomer disrobed and dressed for bed, his mind lingered. He wondered what Lothíriel was like. Would she like him? Could he tell if she was falling for him? Would Lothíriel’s cheeks redden as Éowyn’s did when she spoke of her love? He would meet her tomorrow, and then he would know. At least, he would know how she made him feel. He hoped that Lothíriel would make him feel the way Faramir felt about Éowyn.

Éomer crawled into his bed, and settled in. At first, visions of sword play with the Steward danced in his mind. But the Steward became shorter, and had long lashes and a beautiful smile, and instead he was dancing with a Dol Amroth princess. Soon his thoughts were dreams, and he drifted into a quiet and untroubled sleep. The first in many months.


	16. Faramir 4

Faramir could not sleep that night. For the first time, his insomnia could not be traced to dreams of fire and ash, but instead to the fire and light that was his betrothed. When she touched him… the electricity that pulsed through his person. It was exquisite. After her pain, after everything, that she sought out his touch, and touched him in kind. Faramir nearly wept. She  _ looked forward _ to their wedding night. He wanted to tell her that he spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about that night too, that when she teased him about being wanton, his heart nearly beat out of his chest. He didn’t think he could suppress the pleasing images that kept flashing through his mind any longer. Oh to be married to her  _ right now _ .

Faramir watched her as she made her way to her apartment, and saw her pause at her door. Her body language said there was someone waiting for her inside.

Faramir blanched.  _ Éomer _ . Of course he had waited for his sister, this was the first day of their reunion. What had Faramir been thinking keeping her for so long? But he knew the answer. He kept her there because they needed to heal each other. She came to him because she needed to mourn Gamling. And he needed her, and had for a long while, so she could shine light through the shadow of his fire dreams. He was ashamed it had taken him so long to tell her. When was the last time he had slept peacefully? Faramir was not sure he could ever remember a time he slept through the night without awaking in a cold sweat, sometimes from his far dreams (like the prophecy), but often from nightmares with the stern face of his father, or the fading face of his mother, or the gauntlet of the Witch-King. Even the dream of his brother floating down the Anduin, peaceful in death, haunted his nights.

Possibly more than even their wedding night, Faramir wanted to share her bed. He wanted to wake up in fear and turn to see her beside him, glowing golden with peace and love. He wanted to hold her in the night when her own nightmares overtook her. He would take those moments over all the rest. Over the first time they made love.  _ But he would not have to _ . The Valar had blessed him to have all of those moments with her. He could not help but feel his heart sing, thinking about the life they were to have together. She was the light in his life, now and forever.

When a very angry King of Rohan had not haunted his doorstep, Faramir knew that Éowyn had worked her magic. True, they had done nothing untoward, and Faramir would never have allowed them to. Since he was a child, he had studied Elven lore. Elves made love rarely, and only during the part of their lifetime they dedicated to the begetting of children. The act of love was sacred, and the experience was not just toward the pleasure of the body, but toward the merging of souls. Faramir had taken that to heart, and knew he would never be tempted into that act with any other than his wife. And so it was, he would walk into their bedroom that first night as she would, spoken for by no others.

Faramir could feel the rage come into his system when he thought about Éowyn’s worst memory. A man attempting to take her. If Faramir ever happened upon that scum of a man, the confrontation would be short. No, he did not relish the taking of life, but he doubted that Wormtongue would be missed. And his beloved would be safe at last. Had he told her that he’d asked Beregil to be her escort in case Gríma Wormtongue had slunk into Minas Tirith? No, he had not. Had he told her that he would look out his window many times a night to make sure no dark things crawled through the shadows near her apartment? No he had not. That he kept his bow and quiver handy in case such a thing would arise? No he had not told her that either. He at least felt safer now, with her ever-vigilant brother next door. Now Éowyn was safe in the White City.

Faramir wondered if he could convince Éowyn to take sword play with him. He wanted to see her skill with a blade, she who dodged the Witch-King’s angry mace and slew the thing… He wanted to make sure that she had skill with a dagger to kill any intruder who would harm her. Perhaps if he and Éomer could provide a united front… alas, no. She would see right through this ploy. Faramir would just need to ask, and be open and honest about why he wanted to do such a thing. Perhaps he could also teach Lothíriel…

Faramir shook his head, and felt the grin come upon his face. Poor Éomer. Faramir gave Éomer an hour in Lothíriel’s company before he was besotted. He knew enough about the young King from Éowyn, and now from his own time with him. The poor man did not stand a chance. Two weddings between their families. Tied forever by bonds of blood and love. He should see if Éowyn wanted to take up a friendly wager on Éomer’s fate tomorrow…

Faramir looked back at the dark office, candle burning low. No, he wouldn’t sleep tonight. Again. Maybe he could find time in the afternoon with Éowyn, to sleep upon her lap while she read a book… he really had to stop thinking about bodily contact with his fiancée if he wanted to get anything done….

He paced the room, until he finally settled upon what he needed to do most. He took quill and parchment and began composing notes. Faramir shuddered when he looked at the mithril ring in front of him. He wanted to get the letter to Dale settled, and so would need to set up a council. How strange it felt, requesting these meetings when soon he would be handing over that authority. But this was important enough that it needed their attention now. So he slipped on the ring, then willed the flames in his mind back down with the sweet memories of Éowyn’s lips and hands under the stars. And he wrote, tomorrow during morning tea, an informal council. One to Imrahil, one to Éowyn, one to Éomer, and one to Aragorn. Faramir closed his eyes and thought, then scribbled three more invitations. Gimli, Legolas, and Mithrandir. There. To talk about Dale and Mount Erebor. After stamping them all with the seal, he threw the ring off of his finger.  _ Cursed thing. _

Faramir then looked at  The Elven Arts of Healing , which he had translated up to chapter six. Perhaps he would tackle chapter seven tonight for his beloved, then attempt to catch some sleep. He looked at the title of the chapter, “Healing the Cursed”. As Faramir opened the book and began to translate, an interesting section popped out at him, “Drawing Back Souls from the Shadow.”

_ Finally _ , thought Faramir,  _ a chapter that I will find as interesting as Éowyn. _ Faramir pulled out his quill and started reading, trying to absorb the subtleties in the Sindarin to be sure his translation was accurate.

Faramir dropped his quill. His hand started shaking.

_ Oh Aragorn, what have you done. _


	17. Aragorn 4

He was underwater, choking for breath, a pair of hands around his neck were pulling him deeper into the black water. Faces just above the water looked down at him. One with golden hair passively watched him struggle, but did nothing. Éowyn? No. She was different. Théodwyn, Éowyn’s mother. The other face though, that one he recognized. He tried to call to himself above the water.  _ Please help me _ . But the Aragorn above the water looked at him with pity, then turned his back and walked away. The hands around his neck tightened, and started pulling him into the abyss…

The jump in Aragorn’s gut wrenched him awake. His hand pawed for his blade as his vision cleared. He could feel the cold sweat dripping down his face. What nightmare had that been?  _ Éowyn’s dream. _ His visions were getting stronger, and worse. Aragorn released himself from the mess of his blankets. Clearly he had been thrashing. Good thing his hands had not found their way to his dagger.

Aragorn emerged from his tent, and looked to the east. The slightest sliver of twilight had made it over the dark mountains, not yet sunrise. He could see Legolas was already awake and out of the tent he shared with Gimli, standing and welcoming the dawn.

“Here,” Legolas said in Sindarin, passing Aragorn his dagger… how did he? “You were thrashing near all night, it was not safe for you to keep this.”

Legolas turned his eyes onto Aragorn, “we kept watch over you.”

Aragorn knew he wanted to know what had brought on the thrashing, but the elf would not ask. For that, Aragorn was grateful. It troubled him deeply that Éowyn’s nightmares were able to hold him hostage in sleep deep enough others could come into his tent unnoticed.

“Thank you Legolas,” Aragorn put his hand to his heart, and bowed to the Elven prince, his friend.

Legolas nodded, then continued looking to the east, “the sun rises and it is a new dawn friend. Today you will enter your city as who you are meant to be. Soon Minas Tirith will be Minas Anor once again.”

As if Legolas’s words were prophetic, a man came to both of them, holding four letters, stamped by the Steward. It was clear that this messenger had made it a point not to draw attention to himself nor to those he sought out.

“From Faramir,” the man was dressed as one of Faramir’s Ithilien Rangers, and handed the notes to Aragorn and Legolas in turn, “I trust you can get these notes to Gimli and Mithrandir?”

“Yes,” Aragorn replied. The man then handed the other two letters to Aragorn, bowed, and stepped back, but not out of sight.

Was it time to take up his office already? Aragorn frowned, and opened the small note.

> Dear Aragorn,
> 
> I will not call you yet by the title we both know you to have. But I have need of you today. Gondor is near overdue to send word and aid to their friends in Dale and Mount Erebor, and before I make these decisions, I should like the counsel of many whom these decisions affect. Please come to the Steward’s house for morning tea, where many will be gathered to ensure our actions are correct. If you should like to look at the draft of my letter, Beregond would be happy to provide.
> 
> Yours,  
> Faramir

Aragorn looked over at the inconspicuous messenger, Beregond it must be. He smiled at the informality of the note from Faramir. A man who became Steward before his time and against his wishes, and Aragorn was delaying his own destiny? No. The coronation would be the public celebration, but he had to accept the responsibilities of his office now, as the last Ruling Steward had. Aragorn looked over to Legolas, and surmised their notes had been similar. He beckoned the messenger back over.

“My note says you may have something else for me Beregond,” Aragorn spoke softly, and Beregond smiled.

“It is good to see you, King,” and Beregond handed him a larger letter. Aragorn smiled back at the Ranger. But once the letter was in Aragorn’s hand, Beregond melted back into the scenery without another word.

“Their losses were heavy, but they were victorious. It seems the pieces on the chess board set by Mithrandir have played their parts,” Legolas revealed a mild smile, “I shall go find Gimli and Mithrandir to deliver these letters. I imagine you should find your way to a bath, if we are to advise the Steward of the City.”

Aragorn laughed, and took his leave of the elf. He wondered if elves ever smelled of animal sties from lack of bathing, as men did. Arwen always smelled good. Like a fresh rain in the spring. Aragorn took a sniff of himself, and agreed with Legolas. It was time to walk into the city, still just a Ranger, and find his way to the bath house. Packing his dagger and sword beneath his cloak, Aragorn set forth. To his relief, it was early yet, and private chambers were still available. Aragorn paid the clerk, and found his room. He shook out his clothing as he disrobed, trying to free some of the dust from them. Then he lowered himself into the bath, feeling it burn his skin. He closed his eyes and let himself savor the delicious heat. The scalding hot water always felt so good, especially after extended campaigns. Suddenly his instinct pricked and dread overtook his thoughts. He was not alone in that room.

Hand on his dagger, Aragorn opened his eyes, ready. A tall raven haired man in a plain tunic was at the edge of the room. He was unarmed, save for a book. Faramir.

“Oi!” Aragorn had half a mind to throw his dagger at the Steward, “what the  _ fuck _ are you doing in here?”

Faramir calmly walked over to Aragorn, and took a seat next to his clothing. Despite the calm appearance, Aragorn felt as if wasps were swarming in his stomach, a feeling he was not entirely sure was his own. Aragorn noted that Faramir was close enough to Anduril to draw it and strike him, and he was not close enough to stop him. But he trusted that the Steward was not here for that purpose. Faramir calmly opened to a specific passage in his book, and started dictating in Sindarin.

“To draw a soul back from the shadow is an act of will so great that it falls only to the greatest of Númenor and Elfkind to attempt. For the drawer will not only have to find the listless soul in the land of shadows, but  _ they will have to experience those sorrows and memories in full that have brought the sufferers to their accursed state. _ Calling to them, then leading them forth, so that they will awake.” Faramir closed the book. Aragorn blanched.

“When were you going to tell us of this?” Faramir was calm, seemingly unaffected by his confrontation of his naked King, but wasps still crawled through Aragorn’s stomach.

“I don’t know,” Aragorn could feel his heartbeat racing. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

“I haven’t told the others,” Faramir did not break eye contact, “But I suggest that you do so soon. I would not keep this secret, especially from Éowyn.”

“No.” Aragorn could feel the panic rising in his own throat. Images of Faramir falling to poison. Of Merry being forced to drink the black Orc liquid. Of Éowyn holding her dagger, listening to the keys at her door.

Faramir was studying him, and Aragorn knew that Faramir knew.

“You’re experiencing them now, in this moment of panic,” if anger had been present been in the Steward’s mind, it was gone, replaced with concern. He could feel Faramir’s calm reaching out for him, and realized that Faramir could feel their connection too.

Suddenly, Faramir seemed to have grasped where they were, and his intrusion, yet, the look of horror at what he had done was laced with the mildest amusement.

“Hopefully the imposition I’ve caused you here is understood to be the man Faramir’s invasion upon the man Aragorn’s privacy, and has no influence upon the Steward’s deference to his King,” Faramir was formal again, but his voice held kindness, “And I guess because of my intrusion, at least you and I are nearly even. I can’t speak for Merry or Éowyn.”

Faramir stood up, and walked out of the chamber, leaving Aragorn alone again.

Aragorn scrubbed himself, trying to wash away that interaction. No, this was not how it was supposed to happen. He thought he would feel sick, but he felt lighter. His burden was now shared. He was not alone with their sorrows any longer. There would be no more waiting, it would have to be tonight. He was not afraid to tell Merry, but something about telling Éowyn he lived her sorrows twisted his gut so tightly it hurt.

Aragorn lifted himself from the bath, and realized that there was one more new addition to the room. A small package where the Steward had stood, tied in twine. A plain tunic and pants.

_ You came to me knowing I invaded your most personal thoughts Faramir _ , thought Aragorn,  _ and still thought to bring me clean clothes. _

Aragorn dressed in Faramir’s gift, packed his dirty clothes into his cloak, reset the sword belt and dagger, then set out to find a garden and read Faramir’s letter to the new Kings of Dale and the Lonely Mountain in privacy. He tied his hair back, re-laced his boots, and thanked the purveyor of the bath house. He knew that his visitor had gone unnoticed.

The clothes provided by the Steward were inconspicuous, so Aragorn wandered through the city with few eyes marking him; it was enjoyable. But when he looked back, he saw that Beregond was within his sight, and knew that the Steward had provided him an escort. One who gave him privacy, but one who made sure no harm came to their King. Aragorn sighed.  _ Ever thoughtful _ . With a knowing look, he ducked into a small garden on the fourth level that he always loved. It had fruit trees, and a small fountain. He wanted to bring Arwen here.

Aragorn leaned against the fountain, and opened Faramir’s letter to Kings Bard II and Thorin III Stonehelm. Each sentence the young Steward had written built upon the previous. He spoke of the personal, and of the long friendship between the Kingdoms, and his admiration and awe at the fallen Kings. He spoke of Frodo, and offered Gondor’s thanks and help. The letter was a masterpiece. Written with honor and affection, but also with real and tangible offers of aid between the allies. Aragorn smiled. So young, so unprepared, and here he was, taking up his office as if he were destined to. Were there no King, Gondor was in good hands.

Aragorn realized something then. He needed this Steward. Faramir had the wisdom to let Sam and Frodo on their way, untempted by the One Ring. He had the gentleness to heal the depth of Éowyn’s sorrows. He had the sternness to walk in on his bathing King and confront him for invading his privacy and the privacy of those he loved, yet also the thoughtfulness to give that same King inconspicuous clothes to let him wander his city for the last time. And the letter to Dale and Mount Erebor established that Faramir understood diplomacy too. He as King wanted Faramir of House of Húrin to be his Steward far into the future. But he as Aragorn wanted Faramir the man to be his friend. He hoped he would get both.

Aragorn sighed, an hour yet until the first council meeting. Yes, Faramir had used the word “counsel”, but Aragorn knew what this was a preview of. It was a preview of the rest of his life. So Aragorn put the letter into his satchel and headed to the sixth level. He would see Sam and Frodo for a while before heading the rest of the way into the city, to find his destiny awaiting him.

And he would use this walk to figure out what he would say tonight to the three he healed, whose sorrows were now his sorrows too. He longed for Arwen, but maybe for this, asking for forgiveness was more potent medicine than any that his lifelong love could offer him.


	18. Imrahil 2

Imrahil had been awake since twilight, looking to the east. Swift messengers had announced that the Amroth host were nearing the Osgiliath port, and would arrive there sometime near dawn. Though still sharp, Imrahil’s eyes were failing to find the small shapes of the river boats.  _ Soon _ , he thought. He would be reunited with his family, to celebrate the new dawn. He had already planned a party for the following night, at his private house. He had specially requested that delectables of the coast be brought with his children, and he knew that they would not disappoint. The amount of questions about Éowyn had made Imrahil laugh. They all wanted to know about the Shieldmaiden who had stolen their cousin’s heart. Imrahil decided to let them meet her for themselves.

Lothíriel though, wrote more about Éowyn’s brother. How tall was he? Could he dance? Did he have a beard? Imrahil had nearly burst out laughing at one of her letters, drawing Éomer’s attention.  _ You will see in due time dear one _ , he had replied, and smiled to think of the indignant snort Lothíriel had likely uttered at his answer. Éomer was mostly quiet and thoughtful about the match, asking only the most obtuse of questions. As with Faramir in meeting Éowyn, Imrahil knew that Éomer would not know what hit him.

Faramir’s offer of sparring and lunch was a thinly veiled attempt to aid the hapless young King. But Faramir had always been extremely fond of Lothíriel, so Imrahil suspected that this exercise was one that aided the match he so hoped for. Yes, Éomer was now part of his family through Éowyn, but he wanted to call this extraordinary man his son. For Éomer was that to him already.

Imrahil remembered the moment that Éomer had seen his sister lying on the battlefield. He remembered the grief, then the rage, then the resolve. He remembered watching the young King charge so fiercely into the enemies that he routed the Orcs. His love for his sister had given him wings of death. Imrahil had urgently ridden to his aid when Éomer and his soldiers had overstretched their fury. And he was glad that he had done so, for he knew that Éomer would be a good King, and had the makings of a great King. Imrahil wanted to guide him, to show him all he knew. And now he waited for Lothíriel, to see if love for the young King would also find a home in his beautiful daughter’s heart. A man worthy of his precious jewel of the sea. He had not thought he would live to see the day.

A knock on his door interrupted Imrahil’s reverie, and he found a messenger outside, and a note stamped with the seal of the Steward. Imrahil smiled.

> Dear Uncle,
> 
> I have set up a council to sort out the aid and envoys to Dale and Mount Erebor over morning tea. All who have interest will be there: Legolas, Gimli, Mithrandir, Éomer, Éowyn, and Aragorn. I would have your counsel too. Please come.
> 
> Love,  
> Faramir

Imrahil smiled, it was time. The celebrations had to give way to the rebuilding, and he was happy he got to live to see these days. And his nephew would lead it, at least for now. Imrahil was impressed that he’d included the dwarf, who he knew to be of Durin’s folk, and the elf, who was from the woodland realm. They would make excellent councillors. He wondered at Éowyn’s presence, but suspected she was more than decoration in a room full of men. Imrahil looked to the sun and saw that there was yet an hour before this meeting, and decided to call upon the siblings of Rohan.

He stood up, and looked around at his empty house. Soon the sounds of his children would echo through the halls, filling this place again with light. For now the shadow truly had perished. Imrahil looked in his stores, and found a set of candied dates, to give as a gift of thanks for the morning company. With a final satisfied breath, he headed to the guest houses.

The escort that Faramir had assigned to the royal siblings of Rohan, Beregil, waited out front, then nodded and smiled at his approach. The sound of a woman’s laughter told Imrahil that brother and sister were awake, and looked to be in Éomer’s apartment. Imrahil knocked on the door, and could hear Éomer get up to see who was there. As the door opened, Imrahil was treated to a ridiculous sight. Éomer’s eyes were wide, and he turned bright red. A spoon was hanging off of the front of his nose.

“Not expecting me?” Imrahil beamed, then realized that he could hear the sniggering of Éowyn, and two smaller voices in the dining room. Éomer snatched the spoon off of his nose.

“He gave in! Éomer, we shall expect your bag of truffles!” Pippin called from the kitchen. As Imrahil approached, he saw that there were spoons hanging from all’s noses.

Éowyn’s cheeks reddened, but she did not remove her spoon. Yes, Imrahil very much liked this family. He wondered if the Hobbits had instigated this game, and suspected they had. Everyone should have a Hobbit or two in their life.

“How about candied dates? Since I seem to be the one who lost the King his victory,” Imrahil laughed, and pointed to the package in his hand.

“How about you put those up as collateral and join us?” Pippin was grinning.

“What are the stakes?” Imrahil sat down at the table, all breakfast in that house had already been consumed.

“Whoever loses the spoon last wins all. One bag of truffles, one bundle of Longbottom leaf, one can of salted sweetfish from the Brandywine, and one bushel of wild strawberries,” Merry answered, very serious with his spoon on his nose, “Éomer has now lost, so we are down to three.”

“Tell you what, this bag is a gift from me to you, and I shall add… a bucket of Dol Amroth oysters for the victory,” Imrahil smiled, and took a spoon, placing it upon his nose.

“Put your spoon back on your nose Éomer, you look ridiculous,” Éowyn had light in her eyes, and Imrahil saw she could barely keep from laughing. Éomer looked slightly sullen, but agreed, and so all five in the house wore their spoons with pride.

“Take, eat! A specialty in the southernmost part of Gondor that borders Umbar and Harad.” Imrahil broke open the package, but in Pippin’s haste to get to the treats, his spoon fell off his nose.

“Huzzah! The Longbottom leaf is now our’s!” Merry grinned.

“No fair, you cheated!” Pippin retorted

“Your appetite will be your downfall Pip, you needs must exercise some restraint,” Merry said with a superior air.

“And then there were three.” Éowyn was taking this competition seriously. Pippin was already digging into the candied dates.

“So, what will you two be doing with your day?” Imrahil asked of the two Hobbits.

“We’ll probably go and visit Sam and Frodo,” Pippin answered, “Gandalf told us that both are now sleeping peacefully, and Sam will awake today, ready for news and friends. Frodo… needs another day.”

“Perhaps on my shift I will come and visit you. I think I could convince Faramir to let me sneak you and Sam some hot chocolate,” Éowyn smiled at Pippin and Merry, “It is a small thing I can do for their remarkable bravery.”

“I think Sam will love that Lady,” Pippin beamed.

Merry looked thoughtfully at Éowyn, “Frodo was stabbed by the Witch-King. He got drawn back from the shadow too, by Lord Elrond. I think he would like to meet you, when he wakes.”

Éowyn put her hand on Merry’s, “I will see them today. Both of them. You have my word.”

Imrahil watched the two, speaking unspoken words to each other. And he could see their sadness and their understanding. The slayers of the Witch-King, who walked under his shadow. Some wounds never fully heal, and Imrahil wondered if that was true for these two. And for Frodo. And for Faramir. He hoped not.

Another knock came on the door, decisive. Éowyn got up and opened the door. Lord Aragorn stood on the threshold, dressed in a plain tunic and pants, wide-eyed. He looked like he was seeing a ghost. To see Éowyn? Perhaps. But likely more to see Éowyn with a spoon on her nose. Éomer and Merry took the spoons off their nose at the sight of the King. Éowyn stood firm.

“I came to find Éomer King,” Aragorn said, still with a look of surprise on his face.

“He’s here,” Éowyn’s reply was terse.

“Lord Aragorn, come in,” Éomer had recomposed himself.

Imrahil stood as his King made his way into the room, and heard the treacherous sound of metal hitting the floor. His spoon had fled his nose. Éowyn had won the game, but the atmosphere was sufficiently tense now that no one made note of it.

“There is a council soon, I did not know if you were invited,” Aragorn started with Éomer, formal.

“I have been, as has my sister,” Éomer replied. He looked at Éowyn, his eyes were bugging out.

She had still not removed the spoon. Had she forgotten it was there? Imrahil doubted it. This was a test of will. Éowyn was defying Aragorn through a spoon. It was so absurd it took all of Imrahil’s discipline not to start laughing. He chanced a glance at Merry and Pippin, who were turning bright red from restraint. So he was not the only one.

Aragorn looked at Éowyn, completely mystified. And still, Éowyn did not budge, and neither did the spoon.

“Oh. Good. I will see you at the Steward’s house in 20 minutes then…” Aragorn bowed, glanced one more time at Éowyn and the spoon, and left.

Pippin was the first to break composure, letting out a breath that turned into a laugh. Merry broke next, falling on the floor with his raucous giggles. Next came Imrahil.

“The King just walked into my house and you kept a spoon on your nose,” Éomer was some combination of livid and astounded.

“No, the man Aragorn came to our house unannounced,” Éowyn replied, “And as the game was who could keep composure with a spoon on their nose the longest, I won.”

Both Merry and Pippin were still in fits of laughter. Made worse by the sibling standoff over Éowyn’s refusal to remove her spoon. Imrahil could see the seriousness and sternness Éomer was wearing was starting to crack, then it broke too. And all were laughing merrily.

“So m’lady, how are you going to collect your bounty?” Imrahil wiped the tears out of his eyes.

“Methinks when you are all guests at Faramir and my wedding.” Éowyn beamed.

“I should like to buy you spoons!” Merry doubled back over in laughter, and now Éowyn joined in, finally letting her own spoon drop.

“When my sons and daughter arrive, I should like a double or nothing rematch,” Imrahil offered, “I don’t think you would have been able to beat Lothíriel, but you would give her a run for her money.”

“The challenge is on.” Éowyn had fire in her eyes.

Éomer looked at the Prince, and Imrahil could detect a thread of hope in the young King’s eyes. His family, his kin, his joy. Imrahil felt waiting these hours were eternity. He wanted to see these golden siblings meet his children, and watch as their two families became one.

Imrahil then clapped his legs, “we three must be off. Merry, Pippin. Thank you for the remarkable entertainment. And please, take the dates with you.”

With that, Éomer, Éowyn, and Imrahil left the apartment to head to the Steward’s house. It was time to start rebuilding this world that they had won against the shadow.


	19. Faramir 5

Faramir paced.

He’d had to read “Drawing Back Souls from the Shadow” five times before he’d fully absorbed its meaning. Aragorn lived their worst memories before he could draw them from the shadow. He lived Faramir’s. And Merry’s. And  _ Éowyn’s _ . It was Aragorn living Éowyn’s memories that had turned Faramir’s insides to ice. It was that that had caused him to act. How could Aragorn have done that and not told them?

His decision had been rash. Walking in and confronting his King in a bath? In truth, Faramir had felt as naked in that moment as the King had been, but that was still a treasonous invasion of privacy. He was frankly surprised he was still alive. It was the sort of gut instinct Éowyn always followed, and she had never missed a call. He was not sure if he could claim such great instincts. After he did that.

Faramir’s composure finally broke when he walked past Éowyn’s door on the way back from the bath house. He had kept up his guise that long. Then he panicked. He’d had some terrible ideas in his time. This was the maddest. This was blowing up the last bridge in Osgiliath, success and death but a hair length apart. He should not have done it. Yet, in the back of his mind, he could hear Éowyn’s voice, telling him he had done exactly the right thing.

Minutes to go until his first council meeting… He could feel ash in his mouth and flames in his mind, Denethor’s mad fury staring back at him from his subconscious, scolding him for his insolence. He needed Éowyn. Soon, she would be with him, and her hand could draw away those dark visions of his father. Then a clean, clear knock came on his door. Faramir pushed his dark visions down, and went to the door.

There was Aragorn, early. Faramir nearly retched. Denethor’s fiery face was back, and Faramir breathed to keep it from overwhelming him. Faramir looked into Aragorn’s eyes, expecting to see wrath, but no. Aragorn closed the distance between them and pulled Faramir in for a hug. An overwhelming sense of love overcame him. This was not what he was expecting, not at all.

“I’m so sorry,” Aragorn’s voice was heavy with emotion, “I- I- didn’t know how to tell you.”

Faramir could feel the King tremble ever so slightly under his touch, and Faramir pulled him in closer. He might feel pain at Aragorn’s violation of his mind, but he also felt compassion for this man, holding on to so much burden, alone: Aragorn’s pain, his despair. He felt them inside himself, and understood how deep their connection now ran.

“By me, you are forgiven,” Faramir knew this was his truth, then gently pulled the King away, finding his eyes, “Did you know what awaited you when you applied your healing touch?”

“No,” Aragorn’s expression was haunted, but resolute, “But even if I had known, still I would have done it.”

Faramir nodded. He would have done the same.

“Come tonight,” Faramir looked at him, “Merry and Éowyn will be our only company.”

He paused, and looked at his King. Aragorn was distraught, haunted. And Faramir realized the depth of Aragorn’s pain. Everything Éowyn felt was in his mind. Everything. Faramir then added, “She will forgive you.”

He saw the slightest relaxation in Aragorn’s face, and felt some of Aragorn’s poison evaporate away. Faramir barely knew the man, and yet felt near as connected to him as he did to Éowyn and Merry.

“She did not take the spoon off her nose.”  
Amusement came to Faramir in that moment. He was sure he hadn’t heard Aragorn right.   
Spoon? Why was Éowyn wearing a spoon? Perhaps it was some saying out of the north that Faramir had not encountered...

But when he looked into Aragorn’s eyes, he saw the wrinkles appear on their edges. The slightest smile was coming across his face.

“I daresay there will be time after the council to explain to me your meaning,” Faramir swept his puzzlement from his mind. He had a suspicion that Hobbits might be involved. “I’ve arranged tea in the Steward’s garden for us to discuss Dale and Mount Erebor. Did you read my letter?”

“I would have assumed Beregond had given you a full report,” Aragorn said, and Faramir smiled. He had been marked.

“Only up until you found your way to the bath house,” Faramir admitted, turning a bit red.

Aragorn snorted, the wrinkles around his eyes became more pronounced. Aragorn had the makings of a friend as much as a King, he realized.

“My only suggestion was to invite the King of Rohan, but when I called upon him, I found you’d already thought of it,” Aragorn replied. So that was where he had seen Éowyn wearing a spoon…

“And Éowyn,” Faramir said, unable to help himself, “She managed to rule Edoras with a poisoned and ailing King and that filth of a man hunting her. Her insights into Rohan are likely more valuable than Éomer’s at present.”

Faramir wondered if Aragorn recognized Éowyn’s defiance in his voice. He did not care. He had talked to Éowyn enough to know that she was as much a Steward of Rohan as his family had been to Gondor. Éowyn knew every town, every resource, every weapon of her people. And Faramir suspected that Éomer would say the same of Éowyn’s leadership. Sadly, it was so often Éowyn herself who did not see her quality, and even more often that men ignored her because of her sex. It felt good advocating for her with Aragorn, who viewed her so cruelly when they first met.

Aragorn’s face turned haunted again, and Faramir could feel guilt rise in his gut. The sensation felt familiar, and yet alien.

“You really think that she will forgive me?” Aragorn’s voice carried a note of apprehension.

“Yes. Speak to her truly, and give her a chance,” Faramir replied. Then he let out a little chortle, “If it had not been for your indifference, I would never have met her. Never been able to fall in love with her. I suppose I owe you a hearty thank you.”

The air in the room changed in that moment, as if for the first time Aragorn had made that realization too. Something had lightened in the King.

“Well, tea awaits you in the garden, as do a couple of notes I had for the council. Thanks for not beheading me for my insolence this morning,” Faramir smiled meekly.

“I daresay I deserved the intrusion. I hope that Faramir the man will always confront Aragorn the man, when I bring hurt to you or those you love,” Aragorn smiled brighter now, “And I hope that we are only King and Steward when there is need.”

Faramir met Aragorn’s eye, and understanding passed between them.

As if on cue, the door knocked once more, a round and boisterous knock. Faramir walked to the door to find that Mithrandir, as well as Gimli and Legolas were there. The wrinkles around Mithrandir’s eyes crinkled, and his eyes sparkled.

“You are the very image of health, my young Steward,” Mithrandir took Faramir by the shoulder, and squeezed it tightly, “It is good to see you.”

Faramir smiled, and put his hand on his old mentor’s. Then turned to look at Legolas and Gimli, two he had yet to meet, though had heard much about from Merry. Legolas was tall like his Elven kin, and Faramir could recognize in him an archer of extraordinary skill. Legolas wore a green cloak with a small leaf of Lothlórien. Faramir smiled when he recognized it, for it was the same as the ones he encountered on Sam and Frodo in Ithilien. When Faramir looked at Gimli, it was clear he was masterful with his ax, and with his hands. He was valiant even amongst his brave and hardy people. And Faramir could feel the kinship between the dwarf and the elf. He smiled at getting to meet this remarkable pair at last.

“My people are in your great debt, Gimli, son of Glóin and Legolas, son of Thranduil,” Faramir smiled at both, “I’d made the arrangements already, but should like to tell you that by my leave, you are both free men of Gondor, to wander as you please. If you should ever have a need, we shall provide.”

“Your brother Boromir was dear to us. He saved our lives and the lives of our friends,” Legolas was looking at Faramir curiously, “And word of your aid to Sam and Frodo reached us as well. Consider yourself friend to the elves.”

Gimli then put his hand out and gripped Faramir’s forearm, “and friend of the dwarves. Your letter to my kin moved my heart. We will happily offer our assistance as you should need it to rebuild this city.”

“The Woodland realm will also gladly help you renew the beautiful lands of Ithilien, now that we together have defeated the darkness,” Faramir could feel the elf’s consciousness reach out to his, and knew his words to be true and his friendship cherished. It was a strange feeling, meeting someone for the first time and already feeling such deep kinship.

“Come, the Lord Aragorn already finds himself in the Steward’s garden. I should like all of your counsel as we seek to repair the lands and bonds amongst its inhabitants, now that our greatest common enemy has been vanquished,” Faramir gestured to the garden. Mithrandir led the way, but not before stopping and whispering something to Faramir.

“Truly. That you are whole and healthy. It warms my heart Faramir. You make a remarkable Steward,” Faramir thought that he may have seen a tear and Mithrandir’s eye, and took his entire meaning.

“Thank you for my life, Mithrandir. Without you, I would not have found her.” Faramir looked into the wizard’s eyes earnestly. Mithrandir’s hand was upon Faramir’s shoulder again, and he had a sad but proud smile on his face. A smile of a father. With that, Mithrandir turned and followed the others into the garden.

Faramir could feel the sadness well up in him. The architect of Sauron’s defeat was more a father to him than his own father. Denethor’s mad face boiled up from his subconscious, and Faramir fought to keep it down. Before the visions could overtake him, he heard her gentle knock. He opened the door for the last time. Éowyn walked directly to him, giving him a kiss that immediately dissolved the angry face of Denethor. When she looked into his eyes, he could see she sensed his dark visions. He placed a kiss upon her brow.

“That’s enough,” Éomer’s voice was low, and more exasperated than threatening.

Éowyn turned to him, “you’re still upset that I won.”

And then Faramir heard Imrahil’s musical laughter.

“Does this have something to do with a spoon?” Faramir’s words started all three. At their looks, he grinned, “The Lord Aragorn was early.”

“See sister? Insulting your King…” Éomer exclaimed.

“ _ You _ are currently my King brother,” Éowyn interrupted him, “And Gondor has no King yet.”

Faramir looked at Imrahil, “I should like further explanation, after the council, as to why my fiancée and the King of Rohan are having heated debates about spoons.”

“Yes! Though for now, I will only say that two Hobbits had something to do with it,” Imrahil replied.

“Color me shocked,” Faramir said, then looked at the faces of all three. Amusement and joy on Imrahil, irritation on Éomer, and defiance on Éowyn. Any remnant visions of fire and Denethor were gone, beaten back by these wonderful people, his family.

“Tomorrow night, there shall be a rematch,” Éowyn had taken Faramir’s arm as they all headed for the garden, “I needs must test my skill against that of your cousin.”

“Éomer, you should come and join my family tonight. They have landed in Osgiliath and are making their way into the city. They want to meet and thank the King who came to Gondor’s rescue,” Imrahil still carried a grin, and Faramir noted that Éomer had turned pink.

Just before Faramir and Éowyn passed through the door to the garden, Faramir halted.

“Tonight min elskede, I ask for your audience here, there is something that you must be told, but… not now,” Faramir looked gravely at her.

Éowyn looked at Faramir, concern in her eyes, and nodded.

As soon as they stepped through the threshold and into the garden, greeting the rest of the honorable guests, their demeanors changed. Imrahil quieted, Éomer squared his shoulders, and Éowyn held her head higher. Faramir felt out of place, but in exchanging a meaningful look with Aragorn, took his seat at the head of the table.

“My friends and esteemed guests, thank you for coming. I should hope that in your stay in this city we will have more time to become more familiar, but right now, I needs must ask your advice.” Faramir found his voice, and heard that it rang with an authority that he did not feel, “Word has reached Gondor of the remarkable victory against the Easterlings by the brave men and women of Dale, and Durin’s folk. I do not want to delay any further in sending our words of thanks, peace, and offers of aid. Here I have drafted a letter that I should like to send with swift messengers, and ask for your advice and counsel. What we decide at this table is the last word, as we are already overdue in sending this.”

Faramir looked at each in turn, and saw that all were following his words with rapt attention.

“I’ve left small notes to each of you of things I specifically seek your counsel on. Some requests are material or supportive in nature, and some requests are simply for advice,” Faramir was almost through his speech, “And given that we will be coronating our new King so soon, I defer to the Lord Aragorn, future King Elessar, as the final word.”

There, he was done. Each around the table continued to look at him, and he detected different emotions from many people. When he sat down, Éowyn’s hand immediately sought his. Aragorn stood, taking Faramir’s cue.

“I fear that I set far too much time aside for this meeting, so near perfection is your response Faramir. And at this table amongst friends, I am not King Elessar, I am simply Aragorn,” Aragorn gave a thoughtful look to Faramir, “Let us begin.”

“I presume you’ve invited my sister and myself here to understand the mind of Rohan,” Éomer started the conversation.

“Yes,” Faramir replied

“Then I will let Éowyn, who knows better than I, speak of what Rohan can offer. Her words are mine, as Éowyn now speaks for the King,” Éomer spoke clearly. Faramir squeezed Éowyn’s hand. He had been ready to stand and challenge any who questioned Éowyn’s presence on the council, only to find Éomer had done his work for him.

Éowyn stood, “Rohan stands with Gondor. The letter that the Steward has provided will happily carry our signatures and our support. Rohan will be able to provide the people of Dale three score of hardy draft horses to lighten the labor of their rebuilding. Additionally, our grain stores are not as depleted as King Théoden’s books would have you believe. I have been keeping a second set of books to ensure our people would not go wanting in the cold winter. We thus can offer Dale and Gondor the equivalent of 100 square leagues of seeding grain, more if needed.”

“You kept secret books..?” Éomer whispered.

“Yes, Gríma would see to it that Théoden wasted our resources,” Éowyn replied, “I wanted to make sure that we would not go wanting.”

Looks of astonishment and admiration crossed every face at the table. No doubt would enter anyone’s minds to Éowyn’s quality again, and Faramir’s love for her grew.

Éowyn cleared her throat, and continued, “For the dwarves of Mount Erebor, my brother and I have settled on granting Master Gimli’s wish. In return for the promise of their workmanship to restock our armories, and help in reinforcing our fortresses, we will grant Durin’s folk a permanent settlement in the Glittering Caves, with 50% mining rights, to be renegotiated 10 years after each passing of the crown. Gimli, as your valor saved our people in Helm’s Deep, we would like you to consider becoming the first Lord of the Glittering Caves. All of this we are happy to write into a letter, to accompany the one offered by the Steward, and King of Gondor.”

Faramir looked at Éowyn and Éomer, who were standing together, proud and resolute. Éomer squeezed his sister’s shoulder, and they smiled at one another, then at Gimli. Gimli’s look of delight did not go unnoticed.

“Praise be the day I rode a horse with the people of Rohan!” Gimli guffawed, “Your terms are far too generous, but I can see that they reflect your thanks. I do not see my kin, King Thorin, turning away such an offer, especially from such a fine ally as Rohan.”

Gimli left his seat and went to Éowyn and Éomer, and wrapped them both in a hug. Faramir could not help beaming at his fiancée. He chanced a glance over at Aragorn, and found his eyes. They were full of anguish, but also reverence. Finally, it seemed, the King had taken proper measure of her.

Éomer had the final word, “We spoke of this all morning. Should there be other needs, Rohan will be there to answer.”

The rest of the morning tea went nearly the same way. His letter was discussed, with a few additions made. Imrahil would provide Dol Amroth salt and river boats. Mithrandir made a suggestion in rewording a bit about King Dáin, whom he had known for nearly a century. Aragorn had written a personal letter of invitation for envoys to his coronation, set to be May 1st (just about four weeks from the day). Faramir took all the suggestions in stride, and within an hour, the letter was ready, Éowyn wrote Rohan’s words, and both she and Éomer signed. Aragorn consented to signing as King Elessar. Then all that was left was placing the stamp on the letters, and sending them off. Faramir looked at the ring on the table, put it on his hand, and swallowed down the taste of ash that always accompanied its presence on his finger. When he opened his eyes, he saw that both Éowyn and Aragorn were looking at him with concern. Faramir placed the stamps onto the letters and the bundle, and threw the ring off.

The party said their goodbyes, Éomer teased of their coming lunch and sword play, and all left. Save for one. Éowyn’s arms were around him, and she was kissing his neck. Faramir closed his eyes at her touch, feeling her warmth and light bathe him, sucking away the images of Denethor.

“You were absolutely perfect, Steward of Gondor,” Éowyn whispered musically into his ear.

“So were you, Princess of Rohan,” Faramir smiled, turned, and drew Éowyn in for a lingering kiss. He wanted to kiss her all day. But Éowyn pulled away from him, a thoughtful look in her eye. Faramir tensed. Had she managed to make it to chapter seven on her own? He hoped not, for this was the revelation of tonight.

“That… ring,” Éowyn read his worry, but not the root of it, “Do you have to wear it for ceremonies?”

“Denethor did,” Faramir hated thinking about his father and that ring, but he would not deny his beloved, “But it was never a tradition of our House or of the Stewards. I’m loathe to put it on, and grateful not to have to do so.”

“So, its sole use is as a seal of the Steward?” Éowyn was contemplating something, Faramir was curious, but something told him to leave it be.

“Yes.”

Éowyn nodded, smiled, and kissed him once more, “I must go min elskede. My shift has already started and I’ve promised two Hobbits I will visit Frodo and Sam with hot chocolate.”

Faramir laughed. Everyone should be so lucky as to know Hobbits.

“Your wish for hot chocolate is granted. I will send it up.” Faramir kissed her again.

“I will keep you company this afternoon. I’ll bring soothing salve, as I fear my brother will be more… animated today,” Éowyn smiled. Faramir did not like the sound of that.

“I should like you to accompany me later to see my cousins. And please do not forget, dinner here tonight. It is of the utmost importance,” Faramir gave her a meaningful look, then with a final kiss, she was gone.

Faramir sighed. Today was already eventful, and threatened to become more eventful. Joy at seeing Lothíriel, Erchirion and Amrothos, and anxiety over telling Merry and Éowyn the truth of Aragorn’s healing. At least the fault for that lay upon the King, and not upon himself.

He turned and looked at his garden, at the glade that was already so precious to him with its memories of Éowyn, and decided to place a blanket there and read some of his correspondence. Perhaps if sleep found him, he would dream of the previous night. Of Éowyn.


	20. Éowyn 5

When Éowyn left Faramir’s after the council meeting, she felt exhilarated. She and Éomer had spent much of the morning talking about Faramir’s letter, before the Hobbits and Imrahil arrived. They spoke of what Rohan could offer, and they spoke as equals. It had been Éowyn who’d remembered Gimli’s poetry about the Glittering Caves. It seemed fitting, Dwarven workmanship throughout Rohan (and Gondor), for a long-forgotten system in the Westfold mountains made beautiful, and a guaranteed alliance for the foreseeable future. Éomer had smiled with delight as they worked out the terms, and both were in awe of Faramir’s letter. He really was an excellent Steward.

Éowyn had made another decision after watching Faramir and that ring. After she’d left the Steward’s house, she called to Gimli. She needed a favor, as Éowyn, Faramir’s betrothed. Legolas had followed his companion, and Éowyn was grateful; she had an ask of Legolas as well.

“What can I do for you brave Shieldmaiden?” Gimli’s eyes twinkled as he looked at her.

“I should need a favor Gimli, from your hands.” Éowyn replied.

“Ask away, m’Lady,” Gimli said

“The Ring of the Steward is made of Mithril. If I had other designs on it, could you work with such a metal as that?”

“Yes, of course Lady, why?” Gimli answered, tentatively.

“The ring is not worn by the Steward, it is only meant to be used as the seal of the Steward,” Éowyn could feel her hope rising, “Could we perhaps turn that ring into a stamp, with a handle made of leather?”

Gimli and Legolas shared a look, silently communicating. Something in Legolas’s look led Éowyn to believe he had also seen the dark shadows in Faramir’s eyes when he put that ring on his finger.

“You wish to scrub that ring of the ghosts of his father,” Legolas stated, inspired, “Can I see the leather you would want to use?”

Éowyn took the leather strap she had worn braided in her hair, and handed it to Legolas, “Faramir tied lavender with this for me, the very first gift of love. I should want to return it to him, while also taking away the hurt of that ring.”

Legolas studied her, and the slightest of smiles came to his face, “Yes, Éowyn, I believe Gimli and I can do as you say. I imagine you have not run this by the Steward?”

“It is a surprise. I will attempt to get the ring this afternoon.”

“I shall have a clay substitute Steward’s seal ready for you then, and we will make an exchange,” conspiratorial light was in Legolas’s eye. Gimli caught the look of the elf and Éowyn, and laughed.

“It should take a week, if you can guarantee me use of Gondor’s forge,” Gimli whispered.

“I will have Éomer ask that Rohan have access to the forge, and it will be yours.” Éowyn replied, “Thank you dear friends. Not only did you save my people, you’ve shared with me your friendship.”

The three placed their hands together in promise and purpose. As Legolas and Gimli set off together to the lower levels, Éowyn smiled. To have friends such as these…

Éowyn imagined she could be distracting enough to swipe the ring, and would write a note to Faramir that she had taken it to be ‘cleaned.’ Éowyn had purposefully dressed in the white dress of her healer’s uniform, and went to her apartment to grab her apprentice cap, and a loaf of bread that would serve as her lunch. She hoped this promised dinner at Faramir’s would be ample. Éowyn then knocked on Éomer’s door. He opened to her at once.

“Please ask Faramir to give Gimli use of the Gondor forge this week, on Rohan business,” Éowyn said.

“Can I ask why sister?” Éomer looked suspicious

“For a gift, and for a surprise,” Éowyn replied, “For the Steward.”

Éomer frowned, but nodded his assent, “I know better than to ask you more.”

Éowyn smiled, kissed his cheek, and was off. This was bolder than her usual ideas, but something in her gut told her that it was right. The ring, the symbol of Denethor’s contempt, made anew with love, into a seal. A promise. She hoped Faramir had been entirely honest with her that the ring did not need to be worn.

Éowyn hailed Beregil, and saw that his smile was brighter than she had seen before.

“They’ve come!” Beregil could not hold in his excitement, “All are safe and whole.”

Éowyn walked to her escort, took his hands in her’s, and squeezed them tightly. “I am so happy for you. I can think of no one who deserves it more. Send your family my love.”

Éowyn took Beregil’s arm, and they headed to the sixth level, to the House of Healing. Éowyn listened raptly to Beregil’s recounting of seeing his wife and children again. Of braiding his daughter’s hair and lacing flowers through it. Of giving his son his first wooden sword.

“Then my daughter says, ‘daddy, where’s my sword? I want to be a shieldmaiden like the White Lady of Rohan’, I almost fell out of my seat,” Beregil’s eyes were full of light, “Your bravery has inspired all our daughters.”

Éowyn laughed, and could feel a tear in her eye. She hoped most fathers were like Beregil, who would give their daughters wooden swords if they asked. One fewer caged maiden in the world. When they arrived at the House of Healing, Éowyn took Beregil’s hands once more and thanked him.

“Go and be with your family. Send word to the Steward that I am expecting his escort in the afternoon and have relieved you,” Éowyn smiled brightly at Beregil. He deserved this time with his family.

Beregil bowed and went on his way. Éowyn turned and headed into the House.

“You’re late,” Ioreth’s body read as stern, but her eyes twinkled.

“Deep apologies Ioreth, I was called by the Steward on important business,” Éowyn was contrite.

“No worries girl, the Lord Aragorn has already explained your absence.”

_ Aragorn _ . He seemed spend an inordinate amount of time in the House of Healing. Éowyn understood his presence in that place, but still she clenched her fists. The healing hands of a King.

Yet, something had changed. He was looking at her differently. She mused upon the look he gave her as she refused to remove the spoon from her nose, feeling his amusement in her gut. Not one of her finest moments, but then he had come to them unannounced. He was not the King yet, he was a friend to the Hobbits and her brother in that moment. Yes, her standoff had been childish, but she knew in her heart that she would do it again.

At council, he continued to look at her with that inscrutable combination of emotions, and she swore she could feel his guilt. His eyes followed her, studied her. They contained puzzlement, they contained  _ respect _ , they also contained sadness. It did not make sense. Had Faramir or Merry confronted him? She did not think so. She could not imagine either would do so without speaking to her first. Aragorn’s eyes had been different since he returned with the host. Haunted. She could not understand…

Ioreth’s voice broke into Éowyn’s contemplation, “we should like more soothing salves and poultice dear. The patients are steadily improving, with some fit to be released today and tomorrow. But a few wounds require our careful attention.”

Éowyn nodded, and headed to the herb cabinet. She was old-hand now at the concoctions, and was able to restock them without second-guessing. As she worked, Merry and Pippin found their way to her.

“You’ve come lady! We were worried you’d forgotten,” Merry smiled, “Pip has not stopped talking about hot chocolate.”

Éowyn laughed, “no my brave Hobbits, I did not forget. Before I can come and see your friends, I have duties to heal others in this House. I will be in to see Sam and Frodo as soon as they are completed.”

Éowyn longed to go now, to follow Merry and Pippin into the east corridor, but she couldn’t. Not just yet. She finished refilling the soothing salves and poultice. She then followed Ioreth into the great room, carrying the poultice.

“Alright, out of the nest, time to see if you fly,” Ioreth said, “He’s your patient. What does he need?”

Ioreth stepped back. Éowyn looked down at the soldier laying before her, a great bandage covering a long gash on his thigh. She smiled at the man, and got to work unwrapping his bandages. She could smell the infection that was there, but saw that she would not need to cut out more flesh.

“Ioreth, may I ask you to go fetch me one more of my poultice?” Éowyn asked shyly.

Ioreth’s face drew a big smile, clearly she had assessed the situation correctly, “Yes, girl, I will be back.”

The soldier’s eyes were unfocused. Éowyn suspected that given the state of his wound, the healers had given him a strong sleeping draught.  _ For the better, _ she thought, seeing the angry red of the gash. Éowyn began to carefully clean the wound. First she removed the poultice that had been packed by healers previously, and saw that the poultice had done good work, drawing out much of the infection. Once done, she dabbed her cloth generously in alcohol and cleared the rest. When she judged she had done adequately, she turned for the poultice, to see that Ioreth had returned. The slightest of nods told Éowyn she was ready to proceed. Gently she repacked the new poultice into the wound, then reapplied the bandages.

“We think he will make it,” Ioreth’s eyes twinkled, “You’re doing good work girl.”

Éowyn smiled.  This place, where the shadow of death was all around them, and the healers were soldiers; lights that pierced through the shadow. And now, she was one of them. Éowyn set to work on a few more soldiers, most with less severe wounds than the first. Some talked with her about their lives and families, through grimaces. Many thanked her for her defeat of the Wraith. Then though, her intuition pricked. His eyes were on her again, she knew. Éowyn looked up to see Aragorn making his apprehensive way over to her. Alien nerves came over her, nerves she was sure were not her own.

“You have healing hands,” Aragorn said.

“So it seems.”   
Éowyn lowered her voice so others did not hear her terse replies to their King. How had he expected her to answer?

“I- I- meant that.. I was watching, your touch with your patients, it’s special. Noble.”   
Was Aragorn trying to apologize?

“Thank you.”   
Éowyn wanted to ask him what he was playing at, why he was watching her heal, but she stayed her tongue.

“If you should ever want to learn the ways of Dúnedain healing, I could teach you.”  
What was he trying to insinuate? Éowyn could feel a blush come to her cheeks. What was it that he was leaving unsaid? It unsettled her, but she did not think there was some undeclared love in his words. His words were… repentant.

“Perhaps… someday.”  
Éowyn turned and fled into the east corridor. The atmosphere felt too strange. As if Aragorn were at the cusp of saying something explosive, and she was not ready to hear it. Aragorn did not follow her, much to her relief.

Merry laughter that rang from a room at the end of the corridor. She had found the Hobbits.

“Merry, Pippin!” Éowyn came through the door and received her hug, then looked at the bed and saw a smiling but thoughtful Hobbit. His eyes were bright, but Éowyn could recognize the shadows there still, shadows like her’s.  _ That must be Sam _ , she thought.

As if on cue, a healer’s assistant rushed forward.

“Lady and Hobbits, hot chocolate, courtesy of the Steward,” she smiled, and placed a tray with a large carafe and five small cups.

“I told you Pip,” Merry beamed, “She has Faramir wrapped around her finger.”

“I daresay that you two do too, as he knew the request had come from you,” Éowyn’s eyes twinkled at them, she then turned her gaze to Sam, projecting her warmth and lightness, “Sam Gamgee, the whole of Middle Earth is in your debt. You and Frodo are heroes amongst heroes. Thank you.”

Sam smiled shyly at her, “thank you Lady Éowyn. But I fear I did little save for keeping Mr. Frodo safe.”

“Well, your love for Frodo was so great it held up the world,” Éowyn replied, seeing that the humble Hobbit would not want her high praise, “And such a deed as love is worthy at least of hot chocolate.”

Sam smiled and thanked her. Éowyn proceeded to pour four glasses of hot chocolate and pass them to the waiting Hobbits, serving Sam first.

“To love,” Éowyn offered as a toast.

“To love.” all replied, and they drank their hot chocolate.

“Merry, you did not tell me it would taste like that!” Pippin exclaimed, and looked as if he’d just stumbled onto treasure.

“Hot chocolate is difficult to describe Pip, so I thought to let you experience it for yourself,” Merry said, “How about you Sam?”

“It is quite a treat, I should hope there will be enough left when Mr. Frodo awakes,” Sam replied.

“That is another day yet,” a voice came from the door,  _ Aragorn. _

“You couldn’t wake him up today so that he can get hot chocolate?” Pippin looked at him pleadingly.

“I would not do that to him, not when he’s found peace in his slumber so recently,” Éowyn saw a thoughtful look pass between Aragorn and Sam at this. She knew those dreams too, she realized.

“And there will be more hot chocolate tomorrow,” Éowyn replied, there went Faramir’s restocked stores. But she could not think of a worthier use.

Big smiles appeared on the Hobbit’s faces.

“Perhaps tomorrow our healer can also provide us with a  _ spoon _ to stir it,” Aragorn said.

The room went silent, Éowyn looked at the King.  _ I dare you to scold us for our game Aragorn _ . But one look at the laugh lines and light in his eyes, and Éowyn knew that was not the purpose. Then she heard snickers, and looked down at Merry and Pippin, who were turning red and trying not to laugh. It was too late, both broke and had begun laughing loudly. Éowyn smiled at Aragorn, who smiled back at her.  _ So you have a sense of humor, King. _

“What have I missed?” Sam looked scandalized.

“Perhaps in the rematch tomorrow night, we shall teach you. Prince Imrahil will have a party now that his kin are near to the castle,” Éowyn let a chuckle escape, and tapped her nose meaningfully, “The stakes are high, but the last spoon standing wins.”

Merry and Pippin broke into even louder laughter, and upon looking at Aragorn, she saw a smile of understanding.

“And with this, I must take my leave of you. Sam, it was a pleasure. I should look forward to speaking more with you, especially if you have advice for building a garden,” Éowyn winked, and stood, “The hot chocolate is yours to finish and share as you see fit. The Steward will not deny me a request for more tomorrow, especially for the most honored guests of Gondor and Rohan.”

As she was about to pass, Aragorn stopped her.

“Lady, Merry, might I ask you to join me in the hall for one moment?” Aragorn’s anxiousness found a place in Éowyn’s gut.

Both exchanged a loaded look, and went with him. Éowyn felt nausea, again, not her own.

Aragorn continued, but his usually steady voice quavered ever so slightly, “I will be visiting the Steward tonight as well for dinner. I hope you don’t mind.”

Merry’s face turned grave, and before answering, he looked searchingly at Éowyn. Aragorn watched the exchange too, and Éowyn could see some of the color had drained from his face. She wanted to refuse, to turn away indifferently, as he had done in Meduseld, but she couldn’t. Something there in his eyes was pleading, beyond a polite inquiry, there was some sort of need.

“We do not mind,” Éowyn replied.

“Not at all!” Merry followed suit, and she could see the relief in the little Hobbit… and in the King.

She was not sure she had spoken the truth, she  _ did _ mind. But something in her heart told her that this Aragorn was very different from the Aragorn she had met but a month ago, and she wanted to understand why. Faramir had said there was something she needed to be told; she realized it was something that involved Aragorn. Perhaps he  _ had _ confronted the King about her. She put it out of her mind, she trusted Faramir. She would understand tonight.

Éowyn’s shift was now over, and she scuffled off to a healer’s bath chamber that Ioreth had requested for her. She washed quickly, for every second she was bathing was one second less with Faramir. When she dried herself, she put on the white dress the healers had provided for her, rebraided her hair (now tied with a ribbon rather than leather), and set forth for the entrance.

Faramir was standing erect, waiting for her. Her beloved. Éowyn took in the marvel that was her fiancé, tall and muscled. A handsome face and soulful gray eyes. She looked forward to every moment with him, and was starting to feel the urge to know and explore more. She thought about placing her hands under his tunic, feeling his skin and sinew. She blushed. Faramir seemed to have read her mind, because his smile lit his entire body, and there was fire in his eyes. They closed the distance between them, and their kiss told her the thoughts in Faramir’s mind likely mirrored her own.

“One more moment!” Éowyn had almost forgotten, and ran back in to grab the small container of soothing salve she had put aside, “In case my brother…”

Faramir laughed, “yes, I am quite bruised. Thankfully Éomer has now found something  _ else _ to occupy his time…”

Éowyn blanched, but then her face filled with delight.  _ Lothíriel. _ Faramir and she exchanged a conspiratorial look. She could not wait to meet his cousins, and see the fate of Éomer in Lothíriel’s presence. Éowyn took Faramir’s hand. She wondered too if she could truly take that ring without his notice, and if he would tell her more about their dinner tonight. With the King.

  
“Come, Steward of Gondor, my studies and your study await.” Éowyn gave his cheek one more small kiss.

_ May that place start to have more pleasant memories for you Faramir, _ she gave his hand a final squeeze and they set off for the Steward’s office.


	21. Éomer 5

Éomer had come to accept that sometimes it was better not to know his sister’s mind. Éowyn needing the forge for Gimli was one of those times he knew to quit while he was ahead. At least this time, the scheme was aimed at Faramir, and not at himself. Éomer scribbled a note officially requesting Rohan have access and use of the forge, signed it, and put it in his pocket to give to Faramir.

That morning had been embarrassingly eye-opening for him. The Steward’s letter had arrived to both of them just as they were breaking their fast together, letters written to ask if they would like to join Gondor’s diplomatic envoy to Dale and Mount Erebor. It was not until that moment that Éomer truly understood that he was King. He fought in battles. He rallied troops. He did not care about grain stores or livestock or weapons stores, unless those weapons were ones in his hand. He’d gone pale. Then Éowyn had placed her hand in his.

“Don’t worry brother,” she had said. And she was right. Éowyn had run Edoras while their uncle was sick, creating a shadow council away from the poison of Wormtongue. She had kept track of it all. It took less than a half hour to agree to what Rohan would offer: horses and grain for the men and women of Dale, and the Glittering Caves for Durin’s folk. Éomer had been amazed, and grateful. Éowyn would always be his closest advisor, even if she lived far away. He would need her wisdom for the rebuilding, as he was unsure that he could do it himself. He hated Faramir a little bit in that moment, knowing that Faramir had taken his sister’s heart. But Faramir had the true measure of his sister from the first time he met her. This was clear, as he had invited her to the council, knowing her worth. Something Éomer was still ashamed had taken him so long to see for himself. Éomer would have defended her place on that council with his sword if it had come to it, but it had not. Éowyn had shown herself to need no defending.

A tear came into his eye then. Éowyn’s secret books. Keeping their people safe against that despicable excuse for a man, even as he hunted her. Éomer thought he would always be haunted by Wormtongue’s memory, but their heart-to-heart had made him less fearful for her, for love, for  _ him _ . And today was to be the day that he would meet Lothíriel. An unexpected King meeting a suitable match. Even in marriages Éowyn had shown herself to be remarkable, capturing the heart of the Steward of Gondor and falling in love in kind. Éomer hoped he should be so lucky as them.

Faramir. His soon-to-be brother in law. The unexpected Steward, whose father seemed incapable of seeing his quality. Even in Éomer’s most protective moments, he could see the man Faramir was. Éomer wondered if Faramir had looked around that table at council and seen the looks that were directed at him. Kings and elves and dwarves and princes, even wizards, with admiration in their eyes. Faramir was a good Steward.

But it was now time again to visit Faramir the man. Éomer grinned. He would go less easy on the Steward this time, putting more force into his blows. Just to make sure Faramir understood that even though he was the better swordsman, Éomer would still make him hurt if he harmed a hair on Éowyn’s head. He doubted he needed to repeat that message, but he wanted to make sure that he backed it up a bit better this time. Especially seeing Éowyn’s face as she described the way Faramir’s touch made her feel. He didn’t know why he pressed her for so many details… yes he did. He pressed her for himself, because he wanted to trust that women could love men, even when men hurt them.

Éomer threw his armor across his back; he would feel more natural in his own, then headed to the Steward’s House. As before, Faramir had opened the door before Éomer knocked. Faramir must have a view of the guest houses. Éomer frowned.

“Rohan requests access to the Gondor forge, for Gimli,” Éomer handed Faramir the note, and tried not to think more than that. The puzzlement on Faramir’s face quickly diminished.

“Granted,” Faramir replied, scribbling something on the paper in turn.

“My door is within the sight of your window,” Éomer frowned  
_ Does Éowyn know too? _ he wondered

Faramir’s eyes widened ever so slightly, just enough.

“My office window,” Faramir paused, making a decision, then sighed, “She knows of my view, though likely not my purpose. I look upon her door many times a night, watching... In case  _ he _ makes his way to Gondor. To find her.”

Éomer looked in the Steward’s eyes and saw worry, and anger.

“That’s why… Beregil...” Éomer realized it then,  _ why _ the royal siblings of Rohan had an escort.

“Yes…,” Faramir looked into the distance, “I’ve relaxed my guard now that you are next door, but still I watch.”

“What would you do,” Éomer asked, “If you saw a snake crawling in the night?”

“Put an arrow in his leg. It is a 30 second sprint from my door to yours. He would be alive, and he would not be able to get away.” anger was in Faramir’s eyes, he then looked at Éomer, “...if it ever comes to that.”

Éomer smiled. He had no doubt that there was a bow and quiver at the window through which Faramir watched. Ready for its noble use if anyone threatened Éowyn. Éomer put his hand on Faramir’s shoulder, and nodded solemnly.

“Now brother, I believe I was here for lunch and sparring,” Éomer changed the subject, he wanted to will those images of Gríma out of his mind. His failure to protect Éowyn properly. He promised himself he would never fail to protect Lothíriel.

Faramir smiled, “yes! I see you’ve brought your own armor. Would you like to dine or spar first?”

Éomer thought, “Let us spar first. I daresay it will help me work up an appetite again, after morning tea.”

Faramir laughed, “I will see you in the garden shortly.”

Éomer threw on his breastplate only. He knew Faramir would not take shots at his head unprotected, nor particularly foul shots at any part that was uncovered. Faramir’s skill was excellent, but today Éomer faced a foe familiar to him, rather than someone new. It would be interesting to see how much that changed things.

When Éomer emerged, Faramir saw that Éomer was in only breastplate, and removed the helmet he was going to wear. After choosing blunt swords, the two smiled, and began circling one another.

“How did Éowyn come to have her skill with a blade?” Faramir asked the question, but then attacked. Their swords rang together like music.

“She asked… my uncle. He said yes, so she started… practicing with… me and… my cousin,” each pause of Éomer’s sentence was punctuated with a clang. Yes, Faramir was a bit more predictable today. Éomer pressed an advantage he had seen, and struck a blow to Faramir’s right shoulder, “Gotcha.”

Faramir laughed, “so you did.”

Éomer wondered if Faramir was going easy on him. He would have to make the Steward pay if that were so.

“Éowyn learned with Gamling… when Théodred and I… went out… on campaign…” Éomer parried Faramir’s attack, and recognized that Faramir’s footfalls were not as light as the previous day, they were more obvious somehow. He was preoccupied thinking about Éowyn it seemed.

“Has… she been trained… in close… combat with a… dagger?” Faramir  _ was _ distracted after all, he was worrying about Éowyn. It felt almost cruel to use this advantage, almost. Éomer let his sword strike true once more, though Faramir had gotten several clean blows in now himself. Éomer would be feeling it soon…

“No,” Éomer let Faramir attack once more, parrying most blows, until one caught his thigh. That was going to hurt.

“Would Éowyn consent if I… wanted to… teach her?” now Faramir’s sword strokes were becoming cleaner, looser. Faramir had begun to predict Éomer’s sword strokes again.

“Before we continue, let’s get two things straight,” Éomer had dropped his sword to his side, “I should like you to tell me what I am doing that makes my strokes so predictable to you. Your effort has greatly lessened. And second, just ask Éowyn herself, remembering that she had to sleep with a dagger for months. Her memories of daggers may be dark.”

Moreso than the blows Éomer had delivered earlier, his two comments looked like they hurt Faramir, so much so that the Steward had dropped his head.

“Sorry Éomer, bad habit I picked up from my brother. When I attack from my left side top, you almost always use the same stance, and I know the parry you have chosen. Your predictability is in your feet. I can show you how to better mask your steps,” Faramir’s voice became serious then, “I do not want to bring any further hurt upon Éowyn. If you think learning dagger work will bring her back to those terrible nights, then I will never ask.”

Éomer closed his eyes and tried to will himself into Éowyn’s mind.

“Ask her. But perhaps draw out the memory first, and make your judgment then.” Éomer spoke, channeling his sister as best he could. She would be angry if she found out that Éomer had stopped Faramir from even asking, and she was strong enough to face those shadows, “Then shall we say the practical is now over for sparring, and you can explain to me how I might improve my footwork over lunch. I suspect my bad habit comes from the fact that éored mostly fight on horseback.”

Faramir nodded assent, “Lunch is inside. And I will order us both baths. I believe that the Dol Amroth host are within sight of the city now. Imrahil will likely request your company near as soon as they arrive.”

Éomer’s stomach turned to ice. That was one battle he knew he was woefully unprepared for.

“Please tell me everything about Lothíriel.” Éomer turned red.

Faramir threw his head back in laughter, “Éomer, there is more than we could cover in a lunch, but I will try to do my best on the parts you most need to know.”

Both men dropped their swords, and removed their armor, and then Faramir threw his arm around Éomer, and both walked in for a lunch.

“Is she beautiful..?”

“She’s my cousin, but yes, I do believe she is beautiful… not as beautiful as your sister.” Faramir’s smiled seemed to suffuse the whole of him.

“Both you and Imrahil give me queer looks when speaking of her. And Imrahil has spoken of Lothíriel as being quite similar to Éowyn, but happier,” Éomer was speaking more to himself than to Faramir.

Faramir laughed, “I cannot speak for my uncle, but I do fear that you will be as hopeless upon meeting my cousin as I was upon meeting your sister.”

Faramir then turned to Éomer, and gave him a hopeful look, “And I should hope you find the happiness with her that the Valar have granted me.”

“How did you win my sister’s heart?”

“I don’t think Éowyn’s heart was ever a prize that could be won,” Faramir was thoughtful, “I was simply honest with her. When I saw her, I did not hold back how drawn to her I was. I asked her only to keep me company in those last doomed days; walking with me and talking with me. I opened my heart to her, let her inside. I was vulnerable and let her see into the worst days of my life. She made me trust her with those vulnerabilities. Éowyn’s love is the greatest gift I have ever received. Lothíriel has not had the same hardships as your sister, but her heart is the same. Let Lothíriel see the whole of you, even when it is the scariest thing you have ever done. I almost let that fear keep me from loving Éowyn.”

“How so?”  
“By convincing myself she loved another, against all evidence to the contrary,” Faramir’s face was drawn.  
“You believed she loved Aragorn.”  
“And in my moment of doubt, I almost did not trust her to know her own heart.”  
Éomer snorted, “A mistake I fear most of us have made with my sister.”

“And one I will never make again. I am just grateful that my lapse in judgment did not cost me everything,” Faramir refocused his gaze on Éomer, “Lothíriel has a gentle heart. You can trust her with yours. Do not let fear of your own vulnerability cost you a chance at love.”

Éomer nodded. He wondered what Lothíriel was like. Did her brothers put toads in her bed when she was younger, as Éomer had done to Éowyn? Could she spar? Had her father taught her to hunt? Even as the excitement of meeting her built in Éomer’s mind, so too did the apprehension. He had never learned how to woo. The only woman he had ever really interacted with was his sister. And now, he could not even meet Lothíriel without the weight of expectations pushing him into the ground.

“If Éowyn wasn’t sister of a King, would you still be marrying her?” Éomer hoped Faramir had not taken it as an accusation.

“I would,” Faramir’s smile told Éomer he had not.

“You marry for love. But when you met, there were no expectations on your meeting,” Éomer wished he could have met Lothíriel as Faramir had met Éowyn, “That your match is also excellent for Gondor and Rohan was just a benefit.”

“Yes,” Faramir’s eyes concentrated completely on Éomer. He did not like it. Being read by his soon-to-be brother-in-law. But he was growing more used to it.

“I never wanted it,” Éomer supposed he should start this whole honest and open thing now, “Being King. It wasn’t supposed to be me. I’m a soldier, and was happy to become the chieftain of the éored. My cousin was always meant to be King.”

“I never wanted to be Steward; it was always meant to be my brother. The office made my father stern and dour. Though now I wonder if that was just him, rather than the office,” Faramir replied, sadness laced in his voice, “It is not how we came to our titles, it is what we do with them now. How we use them to help our people. I may be Steward only until King Elessar is crowned, but I will make the most of the time given to me.”

Éomer smiled, “I witnessed that today. I was hopeless without Éowyn in that council, but your authority outshined even Aragorn.”

Faramir reddened at Éomer’s compliment. It made Éomer smile. Éomer suspected Faramir’s prediction that he would no longer be Steward once Aragorn was crowned was incorrect. With kin like Éowyn and Faramir, perhaps Éomer would not be hopeless as King after all. Éowyn had already promised to teach him everything she knew when they returned to Rohan. He doubted there was enough time before the end of the world to learn all that Éowyn knew, but he was appreciative.

Éomer raised the glass of wine in front of him, “to new titles and the time we have.”

Faramir smiled thoughtfully, “to the time we have.”

And the men dug into the lunch before them, eating quietly. There was no more need for words, for they would have all their lives to speak. Éomer also could not think of more he wanted to ask about Lothíriel. It was time to just see for himself. He wondered when she would arrive…

As if hearing his thoughts, a messenger came to the table and hailed Faramir.

“Lord Steward, I’m here to inform you that your cousins have arrived.” the messenger bowed, then catching Éomer, took a small note out of his pocket, “To Éomer King, a note from the honorable Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth.”

Éomer thanked the man and took the small piece of paper. He opened it.

> Dear Éomer
> 
> I would be honored if you would join me and my family this afternoon for tea. This meeting is strictly informal, but it appears that my letters about you and your sister have generated some interest from my children to meet the King of Rohan. Please call upon us at your leisure.
> 
> Yours,  
> Imrahil

Éomer turned red. So this was it. Meeting Lothíriel at last. Éomer handed the letter to Faramir, who read it quickly and smiled.

“He’s trying to take the pressure off of your meeting, in case you and Lothíriel find that the match is not suitable, you will know in private,” Faramir said, and Éomer breathed a sigh of relief, “Éowyn and I will join you there later this afternoon, after I’ve finished the business of the Steward, and she the business of a healer.”

“Thanks for your company, this lunch has been… enlightening,” Éomer stood and gripped Faramir’s forearm.

“Good luck, and don’t forget what I told you. Lothíriel has a gentle heart, you can open yours to her,” Faramir pulled Éomer in for a brotherly hug, “Trust me.”

Éomer nodded, and took his leave. When he walked back to his apartment, he saw that they had already drawn a bath for him. He bathed quickly. He was never good at waiting for the moment to find him, he liked riding out and confronting it. This was like that. He could linger and delay meeting Lothíriel, or he could charge ahead.

Éomer saw that someone had left him a clean tunic with green and gold embroidery and forest green pants. Colors of Rohan.  _ Éowyn _ , he thought. He smiled and dressed in them. King. He was King of Rohan.  _ A golden-hearted King _ , Éowyn had called him, who deserved love from a woman who craved his touch. Éomer deserved nothing less, that is what his sister had said. After tying back his hair and lacing on his sword belt, Éomer was off. He looked up and could see the Steward’s house, and the window which he now knew Faramir was keeping guard over his sister’s door.  _ Making sure no snakes slither out of the west _ .

Éomer walked decisively to Prince Imrahil’s house, only a 5 minute walk from the guest houses. He got to the door and stopped, staring at it. His hands were pulling on his tunic, as they always did when he was nervous. Should he knock? Was he ready? Confronting Orcs was one thing, confronting what was on the other side of that door was entirely another. He thought of Éowyn and Faramir. Standing that first time facing each other in the garden, enthralled at the sight of one another. They found love while facing their own mortality. Éomer could face what was inside that house. So he knocked.

Hurried footsteps were on the other side of the door, and he was greeted by the Prince.

“You made it!” Imrahil’s tight hug took Éomer by surprise. The bruises of his sparring with Faramir radiated across his upper body.

“How could I say no to your invitation?” Éomer replied, “You have spoken so highly of your family.”

“Yes, well, thank you. Come in, my family is in the courtyard”  
Was the Prince nervous? The thought of Imrahil nervous landed like a weight in his stomach.

Éomer followed Imrahil through the house and into the courtyard. Three people were waiting, tall and raven haired like their father. Two sons and …

When he saw her, everything else fell away. If Elbereth walked the earth, surely she would look like this. She was tall and willowy, but not without womanly shape. She had long and wavy hair down to her waist. Her face was heart shaped, and her lips and cheeks were pink. She studied him with intelligent gray eyes through thick dark eyelashes. She was trying to suppress a smile; one that was given away by the twinkling of her eyes. Éomer tried to keep his face composed, but he felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach.

_ Well dear sister, I fear the Valar have done their good work on me too _ , Éomer thought, and he stepped forward to meet the children of Imrahil, and his future wife.


	22. Imrahil 3

Imrahil had not imagined that he could have been more impressed with the young King than he already was. Éomer was smart and had the right instincts, but he was also compassionate and deferential when he knew others had superior knowledge to his own. The way he had stepped out of the way to let Éowyn speak? Remarkable! Imrahil should never have doubted Faramir’s judgment in including her. Imrahil wondered how often Éowyn’s intelligence had been overlooked (a mistake he would not be making again), and smiled that her quality was not overlooked by the one she loved.

Éomer’s action also made it clear that he treated the women in his life that he loved with profound respect. In that moment, Imrahil knew he wanted nothing more than Éomer and Lothíriel to fall in love.

For the rest of the afternoon, he awaited his children. He looked endlessly out the window, and watched the small dots from Osgiliath grow larger. They were coming. Imrahil stood and paced his house. The rooms were ready, he had thrice checked the courtyard now and was happy with the arrangements therein. He sat for a light lunch and forced himself to eat.

He thought of the spoons of that morning, and the Hobbits. He smiled; there would be a rematch, if only to match the wills of Lothíriel and Éowyn. He suspected his excitement over watching this particular battle was unbecoming his station, but he cared little. It had been a long time that he had had such cause to laugh so freely.

Imrahil tried to distract himself with the notes and letters that Faramir had sent him. The young Steward was gaining his sea legs. It was remarkable how fast it had happened. His nephew, from second son to formidable Steward in but a month. A man capable of standing tall against any challenge placed before him. Imrahil had been heartened to see reverence for Faramir in Aragorn’s eyes at council. Imrahil imagined the two: King and Steward acting together; they would be an unstoppable force in the rebuilding of Middle Earth.

Imrahil chanced a glance out the window one more time, searching for his family. They were nearly to the city gates.

Immediately, he jumped from his seat and ran out the door. He thought he could stay still and wait for them to come to him, but now that the moment was nearly upon him, he knew he did not want to wait any longer. Imrahil trotted to the stables and asked the grooms to make up his steed. He would ride down through the city to meet them. The stablehands made short work of outfitting the horse, and Imrahil was upon him. The gates opened for him, and before he knew it he was waiting for them at the first gate of the city. He beamed as the carriages arrived. His family, and Dol Amroth goods to resupply Minas Tirith, were here. Imrahil jumped from his horse, and made his way out to them.

Lothíriel was out of the carriage, running at top speed toward him. She launched herself into his arms and he held his little girl, willing the tears back.

“Ada! I never thought I would see you again,” Lothíriel was laughing rapturously and tears were streaming down her face. She could say no more, as the sobs had come.

Amrothos and Erchirion had followed their sister, beaming.

“She promised she wouldn’t cry,” Amrothos grinned, “Good to see you Ada.”

Both brothers embraced their father and sister tightly, a family reunited

“Elphir wanted you to know that most of the merchant ships have come back into port,” Erchirion said quietly, “All are celebrating. The orders have already been placed for coronation, and will be on their way in a week.”

“That is wonderful news. Now, you three head up to the house and get yourselves baths. At least two of you need them,” Imrahil winked, “I will take care of the business down here. This afternoon, we will have tea, and I believe both your cousin and the royal siblings of Rohan will call upon us.”

Amrothos and Erchirion nodded while Lothíriel reddened.  _ Good _ , thought Imrahil,  _ she thinks on Éomer _ . His children turned and headed up to the house, and Imrahil went to take inventory of what else had arrived with them. He forwarded the ledger to the Steward’s office, assuming that he and Faramir could talk business that afternoon if there was need. He hesitated, then quickly scribbled a note to Éomer and handed it to the messenger as well. He knew he should wait, he should give everyone time to settle, but he couldn’t. He wanted to see, wanted to know,  _ needed _ to know if his instinct about Lothíriel and Éomer had been correct.

Imrahil turned, took a deep breath, then followed his children up into the city, though he let his horse have its head. When at the stables, Imrahil thanked the stablehand, then jogged the rest of the way to his house. They were here, in their rooms washing the travel off of them. Soon they would be laughing and joking in the courtyard over Dol Amroth mead. He so wished that his wife had lived to see the new dawn, but thanked her for giving him such wonderful children, in whom she lived on.

Imrahil went out into the courtyard to wait. As expected, Amrothos and Erchirion were first out, and immediately began digging into the vittles the Prince had set out for them.  _ They’re nearly Hobbits _ , the Prince mused.

“Ada, tell us everything. Start with the tale of the Shieldmaiden,” Amrothos said through a mouth full of sweet roll.

“First let’s wait for your sister, then we can start telling tales,” Imrahil replied.

“I fear she may take longer than usual,” Erchirion replied, “You of course know why.”

Imrahil could not help his smile, “you should let her know that I’ve invited him for tea. I would not be surprised if he arrived soon.”

“Why dear father, would you ask me to make such haste?” a musical voice came from the doorway.

Imrahil turned and saw his daughter. She had dressed in a blue green dress that looked like the ocean. She wore her hair down, and had done little else. She was beautiful.

Lothíriel looked so similar to Finduilas, jewels of the sea, both. Faramir had been too young to appreciate how much his cousin looked like his mother, but Imrahil noticed it every day. Perhaps that was why he was so protective of Lothíriel. He would never let his jewel marry a man such as his sister did. She faded away as much from Denethor’s stern and insistent love as she did from the shadow cast over the stone city. Éomer was serious and yet light, he spoke so highly of his sister, and was unafraid of what stood in front of him. A man who would love Lothíriel but not press that love upon Lothíriel.

_ Please Valar, _ he thought,  _ give me this son-in-law whom you’ve blessed me with friendship. _

Imrahil had already decided that he would pass his crown to Elphir when he returned home. In fact, he’d nearly done it when he rode forth to the defense of Gondor, thinking it was his last ride. He’d decided, if Éomer would have him, that he would move to Rohan, serving as an advisor to the young King. He wondered if Aragorn would consent to his becoming an official ambassador to Gondor in Rohan, to stay by Éomer’s side and make sure that the fate of Finduilas was not also the fate of his own jewel of the sea.

“Ada?” Lothíriel had crossed to him now, and had to wave a hand to break Imrahil’s concentration.

“Sorry dear one. Your old man was just… thinking,” Imrahil smiled.

“Well, now that I am here, please tell us of the battle and your adventures,” Lothíriel sat demurely next to him, and placed her hand in his.

“What would you like me to tell first? So much has happened is such a short time,” Imrahil replied

“The  _ Shieldmaiden _ ,” Amrothos stressed.

“The story of the one who stole Faramir’s heart?” Imrahil smiled at them.

“As long as she is the same one who smote the Nazgûl,” replied Amrothos.

“That is a story better told by her brother-in-arms, Meriadoc Brandybuck, squire of the Riddermark, who slew the fell thing with her,” Imrahil knew he was being cheeky, but Merry really was the better teller of the story.

“Please?” Lothíriel batted her eyelashes, “Before we meet her?”  
Imrahil rolled his eyes at his daughter, but it worked. It always worked.

“Okay, but Merry will tell it tomorrow too,” Imrahil sighed, and expounded upon she who laughed in the face of Fear.  How she’d ridden disguised as a man to that battle, to protect her people. How she alone stood tall against the Wraith. How she dodged the Witch-King’s mace. How she had thrust her sword through the foul thing’s head, and how it had evaporated before them. Then how she had fallen, and had to be drawn back by the King. How she had captured Faramir’s heart in the House of Healing.

At that moment, Imrahil heard a knock on the door. He launched himself from his seat, as he knew who would be there. It was time. Why was he so nervous all of a sudden? When he opened the door, he could not have felt more joy to see Éomer looking back. He had dressed regally and plainly. It was a garment fit for the King of Rohan. Imrahil wondered if it had been Faramir or Éowyn who’d dressed the young King… He and Éomer spoke words, but he was so distracted by his nerves he hardly knew what was said.

“Come in, my family is in the courtyard,” Imrahil could hear the young King following him through the house. When he came out into the courtyard, Amrothos, Erchirion, and Lothíriel were all standing, ready to greet Éomer.

Éomer had stopped dead. A strange expression was upon his face, and Imrahil saw that he had locked eyes with Lothíriel, who was trying desperately to contain her own delight. It appeared that Imrahil’s gut had been right, and he was now looking upon his future son-in-law.

“Amrothos, Erchirion, Lothíriel, this is Éomer of the House of Eorl, King of Rohan and high friend and ally to Gondor,” Imrahil spoke, but still Éomer and Lothíriel had not dropped each other’s gaze, “Éomer, these are my children.”

Amrothos was trying not to giggle at the heated looks passing between his younger sister and the King of Rohan, and Erchirion looked thoughtfully at his father. Éomer stepped forward, directly to Lothíriel, took her hand, and placed the gentlest kiss upon it.

“The pleasure is mine. I owe your father my life, the life of my sister, and the life of her betrothed. Should you have needs of Rohan, I will happily abide,” Éomer had still not looked at any except Lothíriel, who was now smiling as brightly as Imrahil had ever seen her.

To break up the moment, Imrahil clapped Éomer on the back, then noted he cringed.  _ Odd _ . Then he remembered.

“How was your sparring lunch with my nephew?” Imrahil had managed to snap both Éomer and Lothíriel back to the present.

“Ah, yes. It was more spirited than the last time,” Éomer replied, looking slightly sheepish.

“Have you ever dueled your sister?” Lothíriel had twinkling light in her eyes, looking upon the young King.

Éomer smiled, then reddened, “Yes, mostly when we were younger. I started being sent on campaigns while she was nearly still a girl.”

Lothíriel had tilted her head, she was reading Éomer.

“Do you have a desire to learn mir tel’ear?” Imrahil asked his daughter.

Lothíriel flushed and replied in Sindarin, “Ada please speak in a language we all understand.”

“Oh! Sorry Éomer. ‘Mir tel’ear’ means ‘jewel of the sea’ in Sindarin. Perhaps we could trade you lessons in Sindarin for lessons in Rohirric?” Imrahil was beaming, even under the murderous gaze of his ever reddening daughter.

“A fitting nickname,” Éomer had replied, looking shyly back at Lothíriel. This was going even better than Imrahil had imagined.

“Now, I have promised my children stories of our adventures and sorties. I am sure that you have insights I myself do not. Shall we sit and drink and tell our tales of how the shadow was defeated?” Imrahil sat down, seeing that the seat next to Lothíriel was unoccupied.

“We’ve heard the tale of your sister, but not of the Hobbits, or of the return of the King. Is it true that the battle for Helm’s Deep was turned by Huorns?” Amrothos had broken in, “Father made us stay home to defend Dol Amroth, and there we did not see any battle. For Aragorn had already raided the Umbar Corsairs before they’d sailed to us.”

Éomer smiled and took the seat next to Lothíriel. It did not go unnoticed. By anyone.

“Has your father told you how Sauron was ultimately defeated?” Éomer’s eyes were alight, and though he looked at all his audience, his eyes ever lingered on Lothíriel, “Our fate was in the hands of two brave little Hobbits, who had to break into Mordor and destroy the enemy’s greatest weapon, right under his nose.”

Éomer told the story of the fellowship of the ring, and spoke of the bravery of Sam and Frodo. Imrahil looked at his children, watching them as they followed the story, asking questions. But mostly he looked at Lothíriel, who smiled through her whole person as she looked at and listened to Éomer, and he knew. Two would be the ties between Rohan and Amroth.

Imrahil beamed,  _ thank you Valar. I promise to take care of him - of them - until my dying day. _


	23. Faramir 6

“Before we start our afternoon, I have a few requests,” Éowyn said these words with a bright and guilty smile upon her face, “Tomorrow Frodo awakes, and I have now promised not two but three Hobbits I can provide more hot chocolate, please find it in your heart not to make me a liar! Also, can we get bread, cheese, and wine sent for our meal? I’ve had little for lunch and am starving!”

“Consider both done. Merry and Pippin should win some sort of award for most impressive depletion of the Steward’s stores,” Faramir laughed, and put his arm around Éowyn’s waist, then grimaced.

His shoulder had protested at moving more than he had expected, and he could feel the bruises blossoming in many places where metal had met flesh. In a single day, Éomer had not only found his mark, he had stopped softening his blows. What had Éowyn told him the previous night?

“Should I take it that my need for soothing salve may be partially your fault?” Faramir looked down on Éowyn as they walked, and he could see that she was smiling to herself.

“I told him how you make me feel,” Éowyn replied. It was matter-of-fact, but both pulled the other closer in that moment.

“And how do I make you feel min elskede?” Faramir kissed the crown of Éowyn’s head.

“A conversation for a more private audience,” Éowyn was looking forward, on their path to the Steward’s house.

Faramir quickened his pace, now wanting more than before to be alone with her. Ouch. Éomer had landed a blow on his thigh too. That one would hurt in the morning. Despite his new injuries, he was glad for the time with his soon-to-be brother-in-law. Éomer’s thoughtfulness not only about his sister, but about love, was refreshing. And Faramir would make more of an effort to tell the young King what he could do to improve his sword fighting skills, even as he knew that would mean more numerous bruises for him in the future. Éomer had improved tremendously in only a single day, simply from having observed Faramir’s style. Éomer was a great warrior, and was clearly a thoughtful King. The children of Éomund were truly remarkable.

As they crossed the threshold into the house, Faramir beckoned to the butler and asked that lunch and wine for two be sent to his office. When he returned his attention to Éowyn, he could see she was pondering something.

“What brings that look to your face min elskede?” Faramir looked into her eyes, and could see depths of contemplation.

“Lord Aragorn is coming to dinner tonight. When you’ve told me there is something that I need to know,” she looked in his eyes, studying him.

Faramir’s stomach knotted, but he kept his composure. What would he say? As always, he would be honest.

“Yes. Last night I discovered something that ties you, Merry, and me to Aragorn, a secret that needs to be shared between us,” Faramir replied, begging his brain to find the right words.

He wanted to ask her to forgive him for confronting Aragorn first. It was a gut instinct, that gathering the companions tonight with their healer and the keeper of their secrets would better heal the wounds that had been inflicted. Faramir looked at Éowyn’s beautiful face, silently pleading with her to trust his gut.

“And you think it best to keep it from me now?” Éowyn’s voice held a note of challenge.

“I won’t keep anything from you. And if you demand it of me, I will tell you everything. But my instinct is that there will be a lot less hurt to all of us if we wait just a while longer, when we have requisite time and privacy together to fully speak our hearts,” Faramir said, the knot in his stomach tightening, “The answer to my riddle is Chapter 7 of  The Elven Arts of Healing . I know you are practicing Sindarin, and I’ve translated the chapter in full. But I ask that you wait to read through that chapter until tonight.”

_ Please trust me Éowyn. _

“You’ve left me quite a temptation Faramir,” Éowyn looked intrigued, “And have given me enough that should I want to seek answers myself, I now can. Yet you ask me to trust you and to wait...”

Faramir nodded, but could find no words.

“You promise that I will know all tonight?” Éowyn asked.

“Yes.”

“I trust you. I have other books I must read today,” Éowyn said the words Faramir longed to hear more than any others, “Now, let’s head to your study so I can practice my healing.”

He pulled her in and kissed her. He couldn’t help it. Her trust pulled him out of the dark shadows that had begun to rise in his mind. When they made it to his study, Éowyn looked around the room in a way he had not seen her do so before.

“What is it that you are tasked with today, Lord Steward?” Éowyn asked, but there was mischief in her eyes.

“Mostly reading and jotting down notes. I must go through the list of our supplies and the needs of our people, and make sure that all has been taken care of,” Faramir answered, but Éowyn’s eyes were fixed on the ring on his desk.

“So you are free from wearing that nightmare ring for the day?” Éowyn asked politely, but Faramir could hear there was depth and concern below her question.

“Not today,” Faramir smiled at Éowyn’s concern, “How long have you known it gives me fire dreams?”

Éowyn looked up at him, “I didn’t know it was a cause of your fire dreams min elskede. That makes me dislike it even more.”

Faramir walked to her, stopped just before he could kiss her, and looked into her eyes.

“I do not deserve you Éowyn,” Faramir could smell the lavender in her hair, “You are me'a en' coiamin - the light of my life.” and he pulled her to him and then kissed her. Éowyn’s hand found his shoulder and squeezed it. Faramir grimaced.

“My brother put a few dents into you I see,” she was smiling smugly now, “Close and lock the door.”

Faramir searched her for why she asked, but did as she requested.   
  
“Take off your tunic,” Éowyn said the words so matter-of-factly that Faramir nearly started obliging, before realizing what she was asking.

“Min elskede…”

“Faramir, I apply my healing touch to all parts of injured men and women, and will dedicate my life to such a task,” Éowyn looked stern, “Now please take off your shirt so I can assess exactly how much damage my brother did.”

Faramir had strong suspicions that this would not be the same. He was not one of her patients and she was not just some healer. She was the woman he would spend the rest of his life with. He craved her touch, her mouth, her skin… but then he remembered her words the night before. Taking small enjoyments in each other would not cause some wanton chain reaction that stole the sanctimony of their wedding night from them. She trusted him, and she trusted herself. Did he trust  _ himself _ ? Yes. Faramir knew without reservation that there was not a thing in Arda that could tempt him to try to take Éowyn. He would cut off his hands before he did so.

Faramir sighed, looked at Éowyn, who had clearly been waiting for him to concede defeat, and he took off his tunic. The moment she laid eyes upon him, Éowyn’s expression changed. It was heated, full of fire. Faramir looked down at himself. To him, it was but the chest of a man, honed through endless years fighting the Shadow. There were some scar marks from swords that had landed lucky hits, and the still-angry arrow mark on his left shoulder. He smirked when he saw just how many new bruises Éomer had gifted him,  _ I will have to put more efforts into my parries next time. _

Éowyn had not moved, a conflict was clear on her face. Then she looked determinedly at his bruises, nodded to herself, and moved forward, soothing salve in hand. Éowyn took a tentative look in Faramir’s eye, then opened her small container and spread some of the pungent cream onto her fingertips.

Éowyn’s fingers were on Faramir’s right shoulder, rubbing in the soothing salve. Faramir’s heart raced with every gentle probe. He willed himself to stay still, not to betray how naked he felt in that moment with her; not to betray that the warmth of her touch was sending sparks of desire coursing through his veins.

Éowyn moved onto the second worst bruise, one just above his pectoral muscle. Her hands were becoming more confident in their touch of his body, but also somehow more intimate. Her fingers caressed his chest hair as she worked the salve into the bruise, just gentle enough not to elicit a scream of pain from the tender flesh. Faramir had lost the ability to keep his breathing steady, as he closed his eyes and gave into the sensation of her hands. Third bruise, this time on his left side just below his ribcage. Éowyn’s hands gained ever more confidence, and Faramir wanted to cry out for the bliss he was in from her touch, applying soothing salve, but also humming with love and light. The fourth bruise, on the right hand side this time, and a little lower down. Faramir could feel his own desire stir, a long dormant fire stoked and now burning. Éowyn’s fingers were lingering now, no longer solely a healer’s hands, but also a lover’s hands, exploring his body, mapping his muscles, the hair of his chest, his skin. Faramir wanted to lean forward and let those exquisite hands explore his whole being, but still he kept motionless.

“Healing you is not the same.” Éowyn let her hands linger on Faramir’s chest, continuing her exploration.

“No, I reckon not,” Faramir took one of her hands in his own, and when their eyes met, he could see the that his fire was burning inside her too.

He leaned in and met her lips. The kiss started gently, then built, becoming insatiable and passionate. Faramir put his free hand into Éowyn’s hair, freeing some of its intoxicating lavender. He wanted to pull her to him, to feel her softness against his naked flesh. But he would not. In that moment, he pulled away from her. He did not want to break from this thrilling sensation, but he did not want to test his own resolve any further, not now. Not in this first wonderful moment, where he experienced Éowyn’s tender touch on his skin, healing him and exploring him.

He smiled broadly, “I should hope that this is not how you heal most of your patients min elskede.”

Éowyn’s concentration broke and she let out a rapturous laugh. Her hand gently rested on his stomach, fingertips raking the hair she found there. The sensation of it kept thrumming through Faramir’s nerves. The fire inside of him was starting to build uncomfortably again. Oh to be married to her  _ right now _ .

“He got my thigh too,” Faramir smirked, “But I think for now it is better if I take care of that one myself.”

With the greatest of efforts, Faramir gently took Éowyn’s hand, and removed it from his person. He craved their further exploration of one another, of the electric energy that pulsed through him with this new intimacy. A first for him. He channeled that need into the excitement of marrying Éowyn. Of the many firsts they would get to experience together. If the simple caress of his skin could bring him this much enjoyment, he couldn’t imagine what awaited him when their caresses were unrestrained.

“I fear I have failed as your healer,” Éowyn was smiling at him, regaining her own composure.

“The way you are making me feel… it’s no failure,” Faramir was slowly coming back to earth from his bliss, “I just… suspect that it will take a while before your touches don’t feel so… electric.”

“The wait for our wedding day seems endless!” Éowyn had thrown back her golden head in frustration. A frustration that their wedding night was still far off. Her words did little to quell the fire in Faramir’s gut.

“If our conversation continues in this direction, I will get none of what I need to done,” Faramir said, reeling in his desire, “Please min elskede, release me from this bliss in which you’ve ensnared me.”

With one final soft touch to Faramir’s chest, Éowyn backed away. Faramir pulled his tunic back over his torso, and noted how much better his bruises felt. He wondered if that was solely the work of the soothing salve…

Éowyn then handed him the soothing salve, “I will not tempt us further by insisting on applying that salve myself, but I must ask that you put some on your thigh, before the bruise becomes too angry. I have a message that needs to be written, which I will do downstairs… but I will be back shortly.”

Éowyn slipped from the office without a backwards glance.

_ Valar give me strength _ , Faramir thought,  _ my bliss in the presence of this woman threatens to end me. _

Faramir quickly removed his pants and rubbed the soothing salve into the angry bruise on his thigh. Immediately he felt the area go numb, pain replaced with relief. Faramir then replaced his pants, and turned to sit at the Steward’s desk. The soothing salve had done its good work, yet the chair insisted in causing him pain. His father’s chair.

_ Not today _ , Faramir thought, closing his eyes and feeling Éowyn’s hands heal him. The memories of fire and ash were giving way to the very real fire that was burning inside of him being near her.

Éowyn was back through the door, smiling brightly. Faramir wondered at her task and message, but put it out of his mind. Éowyn then settled herself on the loveseat in the office, paging through one of her healer’s books. Faramir watched her for a little while, entranced. Absorbing her peace. He picked up the first of several ledgers worth of work. Pleas for help from villages had begun reaching the Steward. Sauron’s enemies had razed nearly everything in their path, and there was incredible need. They would manage, especially if Gondor could count on their allies. Faramir looked at Éowyn again, unable to contain his smile. Gondor called. Rohan answered. And now, she was here. She was his.

The next ledger Faramir had to open had been sitting waiting for him for days, since the host had returned. It was a ledger of the dead, but Faramir was still not ready to read their names. As he thought about all those deaths; men he had led, men who had died defending that great city, he could feel tears start to well up. He needed to look, he needed to start writing out the letters to their widows and families. There were so many of them. Faramir shuddered, then sniffled.

Her book shut, then her arms were around him, her cheek to his cheek. She was willing her love into him, and he felt safe. He stopped trying to push away the tears; he let them come.

“I’ve avoided opening this book, knowing just how many names I will recognize,” Faramir’s grief was palpable, but manageable, “They died saving us. Yet I know by seeing them in this book, that they are truly gone.”

“Then we will open it together. You, me, Éomer, Imrahil, and Aragorn. We will look upon their names and mourn them together. And together, we will heal,” Éowyn gently took Faramir’s hand off of the ledger, “You’ve shown your worth in your first council min elskede, you will shine even brighter in the next one.”

Éowyn kissed Faramir’s cheek, then caressed it with her nose. Her lips did not titillate him, for their purpose was comfort. Faramir closed his eyes, letting Éowyn’s warmth bathe him, and he cried for his fallen brothers. She did not move from him, holding him. And Faramir realized that tears were streaming down her cheeks too.

And so they cried, for the fallen.  
They cried for their wives and children.  
They cried for the villagers who burned in their houses.  
They cried for fallen enemies, young and naive.  
And they cried for their fallen friends and kin.

So many had died; the new dawn had been baptized with their blood. Everything was changed. And they could mourn for those they lost, truly, for the first time, without the shadow pressing upon them. After his tears had fallen, Faramir felt lighter. Éowyn had that effect on him, that effect on people. He would call another informal council, to speak of what they were to do with the dead who served bravely. He could ask Imrahil and Éomer this afternoon for the council to take place the following day. He would ask Aragorn before their dinner that night. Another of Éowyn’s instincts that just was… right.

The last business was the Amroth ledger, and Faramir realized he would much rather work on that  _ with _ his uncle, hopefully in the presence of cousins and loved ones. He knew that the messenger alerting him that they were here would come soon enough. Faramir took the overlarge ledger and walked it over to his satchel. He suspected the prince would be unhappy, but oblige him the discussions of the Amroth supplies.

A knock came on the door of his office at that moment, as if sensing his hope, and Faramir walked to get it. Éowyn resettled herself on the loveseat, looking as if she had spent the afternoon there. Faramir smirked at her. Theirs would be a happy life.

“Your uncle the Prince Imrahil has sent word asking you to join him and your cousins at his residence this afternoon. He’s asked that you bring the lady Éowyn.” Faramir’s butler conveyed the message.

“Thank you,” Faramir smiled, “We will be on our way shortly.”

The man bowed and left them.

“Shall we min elskede?” Faramir turned to Éowyn, who had risen from the loveseat. She had mischievous light in her eyes.

“Yes, please! Though I should like to go back to my apartment for a short while and rebraid my hair at least. Give me a 5 minute start and call upon me soon?” Éowyn kissed Faramir upon his cheek, and was away.

Faramir breathed out, looked around the study, then noticed something was off. A small clay block and a piece of paper lay on the Steward’s desk, and the ring was missing. He went and opened the paper.

> Min elskede,
> 
> I’ve taken your ring. This clay stamp should suffice as a seal for the time being, and I promise that when your ring returns, it will feel cleaned and new.
> 
> Love,  
> Éowyn

Faramir stared at the note, then picked up the small clay block. It was an excellent replica of the seal.  _ Elven made, _ Faramir realized,  _ and a ring made of mithril by the hands of dwarves. _ That was likely why Éomer asked for access to the forge.

_ So this was where that mischievous light was coming from min elskede _ , Faramir grinned. The ring that encased him in fire. She set out to change it, to fill it with her love. There was nothing he could do now that she had it, so he just had to trust her. Faramir sighed, placed the small piece of parchment into his pocket, hoisted his satchel over his shoulder, and set off.

The new dawn was upon them. It was time to mourn, but also time to celebrate. It was time to think upon fallen family members, but it was also time to celebrate new family.


	24. Lothíriel 1

Lothíriel thought about those endless moments staring out her window toward the sea. Her father had ridden away, likely to his death, in support of her uncle. Her brothers had busied themselves with securing the castle, for the attack all thought was coming. The shadow was descending. She remembered her endless pacing, wishing she knew what she could do. She remembered then taking quill and parchment, and trying to write every last memory down. Maybe if they all perished, her words would survive, and others would know of the last stand of Gondor, before darkness fell.

Before the Anduin was lost, a boat bearing messages informed her that her cousin Boromir had perished, and that his cracked horn had found its way back to Denethor. She could see her cousin so clearly, tall and proud, nearly as stern as his father. But there was also a kindness in Boromir that she’d never been able to sense from her uncle, one that told her that he still felt love in his heart. She remembered Boromir teaching her cousin Faramir and brothers how to fight. Slowing his own motions to model them, laughing as he danced around their attacks, lecturing them about how gave themselves away, first in their swordwork, then in their footwork. He was gone, consumed by the darkness.  _ Everything will be taken, _ she’d thought gravely,  _ the best I can do is make sure there is meaning in my end. _

But the attack never came. Someone had overtaken the Umbar host, and had sailed the Corsairs past Dol Amroth. The King, it was said. Her brothers rejoiced, but Lothíriel felt an unease. Their father was still on the front lines. She remembered the great tremors of the earth on the day the darkness fell, and how her heart suddenly felt lighter. How she had danced that night in celebration of an unknown force. Then a great Eagle passed over the land and exclaimed that the free people of Middle Earth had been victorious: Sauron was gone. And… a King had returned. It took three more days for news of Imrahil to make it to Dol Amroth.

> My dearest children,
> 
> I write in haste so you know that I have survived. Your uncle Denethor has tragically passed. Your cousin Faramir was also wounded, but is recovering in the House of Healing. I’ve met not one but two remarkable Kings on the last march, and look desperately forward to seeing you again. The paths are not yet safe, but once they are, please make haste to Minas Tirith to celebrate the coming of the New Dawn.
> 
> Love,   
>  Ada

They immediately started making arrangements to leave for Minas Tirith. Elphir, ever the big brother, refused to let them go until the Amroth fleet was ensured safe passage up the Anduin, and they were assured safe passage to the harbor. Lothíriel pushed a letter into her brother’s hand, “at least if you keep us captive until they make sure all is safe, you could see this delivered to Ada.”

The letters between them started flowing then. Lothíriel started to see a pattern. So many letters discussing the young King Éomer of Rohan. Of his valor, of his honor, of his kindness. Lothíriel knew then her father’s purpose. But as if to make it completely clear, Imrahil had drawn a picture of the King. Her father was trying to set a marriage match. It made Lothíriel’s stomach turn. Was she to have the fate of Morwen? A Gondorian princess ferried away to the land of the Horse Lords? She loved her father and she trusted him deeply, but… this seemed… strategic. Yes, his words about the young King piqued her interest, and it sounded as if Ada was genuinely becoming friends with the man. So Lothíriel, ever the dutiful daughter, had agreed to come. Agreed to see if there was something there.

When the next letter included news of her cousin’s betrothal to the Shieldmaiden of Rohan, Éowyn Wraithbane who had slain the Witch-King, Éomer’s  _ sister _ , reached her, she gave her father’s requests more serious thought. Perhaps all that had been bandied about in court over the uncivilized world of Horse Lords had been wrong. Rohan had come to Gondor’s aid when it was most desperately needed. And the greatest of them had defeated an enemy beyond even the most skilled warriors of Númenor. Rohan, so oft overlooked, could be overlooked no more.

Lothíriel began to let herself think about the man in the drawing. Herself a queen at his side. He was a warrior. Would he be kind? Was her father’s friendship with this man a sign that he was warm and good of heart? Lothíriel shuddered. She did not want to suffer the fate of her aunt Finduilas either, given away to a stern man much older and forced to live under the shadow, away from the sea. Was Éomer older? Ada had never said in his letters, but the drawing made it look like he was young. Perhaps younger even than Faramir.

When the coast was declared clear of enemies and arrangements were made to travel, Lothíriel could not help the butterflies in her stomach. She looked out every day at the sea, wondering if these were some of the last days that she would call Dol Amroth home. She was not sure that she was ready to face that fate yet, but here it was. She would face her future with an open heart and open eyes. Standing upon that precipice, she could feel both the excitement of perhaps finding love, and the fear of leaving all she knew as her home.

Having seen his sister fade from a marriage that lacked in love, Lothíriel was certain that her father would not condemn her to a similar fate. She would be free to decide if she loved the young King, and he would be free to decide if he loved her in turn. It comforted her. Her hand was her’s to give. And her Ada would never force her hand into another’s.

The days on the ship passed ever so slowly, taunting her with their sloth. She passed the time writing. Instead of writing of the end of days, she wrote poems and songs. Songs of the sea, playful poems about her brothers, sonnets about love. She wanted to meet Éowyn, to understand the woman who was able to finally bring happiness to Faramir. She wanted to know how she had done it. Lothíriel had become adept at drawing smiles out of her thoughtful cousin, once in a while even eliciting laughter. But she could never remove Faramir’s sadness. That seemed to run deep into his heart, impenetrable. Had Éowyn found the way in? Lothíriel could not wait to find out.

The last few leagues were truly endless, but finally, they were there. Lothíriel was in her father’s arms, crying. She now owed Amrothos one of her pink salt rocks, but she cared not. Her Ada was alive and whole. She hurried back to her room to take a quick bath.  _ He _ was coming. Lothíriel’s cheeks reddened thinking about it. She chose one of her favorite dresses, plain, but it reminded her of the sea. She looked at the many accoutrements she could have adorned herself with. Should she wear a pearled snood? Perhaps rouge her cheeks? No. She would come as she was. Rouged cheeks and adorned hair were for ceremony. This was not a ceremony. And she would not let this moment feel like one. She nodded at herself in the mirror, and descended the stairs into the garden.

Not two minutes had gone by since she had emerged into the courtyard before a knock came on the door. Imrahil had launched himself towards it as if a dragon was chasing him. Lothíriel blushed. She knew who was at that door. She and her siblings stood to welcome their royal guest.  _ Royal guest _ , she thought,  _ a King come to call. To look upon me. _ She felt like a piece of meat, about to be appraised. She knew it was not entirely like this, but it sure felt as if it was.

When Imrahil emerged from the doorway, Lothíriel’s breath caught. Behind her father was such a man as she had never laid eyes upon. He was tall, as tall as her cousins. He had long blond hair tied back and was wearing a tunic embroidered and gold and green. The colors of Rohan. His shoulders were broad and his chest was well-muscled, honed no doubt by the sword. His face was fair, and though it was full of youth, his eyes contained sadness of a man who’d already lived through many sorrows. But in his eyes also shone light, and they were the color of the forest. Lothíriel wanted to know this man. She wanted to understand why one so young had such wizened eyes as he.

Éomer looked struck dumb as he followed her gaze, and it made her smile. She saw fire in Éomer’s eyes. And fear.  _ Well, Éomer King, it is time for me to know your soul, _ Lothíriel thought, trying to suppress the feeling of excitement that was overtaking her. Just before she spoke, Éomer walked deliberately forward and took her hand, placing upon it the gentlest of kisses. Lothíriel shuddered at the sensation, then closed her eyes to savor its echo through her nerves. She did not yet know if he would be her husband, but all the doubts she had about meeting Éomer had fallen away. Her father had taken notice, and Lothíriel wanted to crawl into a large hole as he grinned and delighted in the sparks he seemed to believe he orchestrated. Lothíriel would have to figure out how to explore these fledgling feelings for Éomer  _ far away _ from Ada, and his insufferable grin.

Imrahil beckoned all to sit and tell the tales of the war, and Éomer had taken the seat directly next to her. She could smell his scent, some combination of soap and… lavender? It was faint, but there it was. Being so close to him, she now saw just how tall and solid the young King was. His voice was rough but musical, deep and regal. But it was only when he began recounting stories of the war, egged on by Imrahil that she truly understood why people would follow Éomer into battle. There was an unrelenting draw to him, to be in his presence, to listen to his words. When he spoke of his sister, or of the Hobbits, Éomer’s face would light, and she could see that his smile penetrated to his core. She wanted to see that smile. She wanted to be the  _ cause _ of that smile. And she desperately wanted to meet those who could make him smile like that.

A knock on the door interrupted their stories. Both Imrahil and Éomer jumped up at its sound.  _ Faramir and Éowyn _ , Lothíriel nearly jumped up too for excitement. But she was a lady, and so she sat. When the tall figure was in the doorway though, Lothíriel launched herself into his arms with nearly the fervor she had greeted her own father. Faramir had to regain his balance, and Lothíriel saw that he had flinched. Suddenly, she could hear musical laughter.

“You will need new soothing salve if this is the greeting you get from all your family members!” her blue eyes were alight as she looked at Faramir.  _ Éowyn _ .

“I hope I did not put too many dents into you brother,” Éomer had joined in.

Faramir gently put Lothíriel back on the ground and she nearly gasped. The gray eyes, full of shadows and sadness were twinkling at her. She stopped and just looked into them, where were his shadows? Lothíriel then turned back to Éowyn and marveled. She walked directly to her, and threw her arms around her then in turn.

“I did not think it was possible,” she whispered in Éowyn’s ear, “that I would ever see that kind of joy in my cousin’s eyes. You truly are a miracle, Éowyn, daughter of Éomund.”

When she pulled away, she fixed her gaze into Éowyn’s eyes. She read in that moment that Éowyn had as much gallantry and nobility as even the Kings of old Númenor.  _ Never again _ would she question the quality of her brethren in Rohan. She looked furtively at Éomer, who was smiling through his whole person, with a bewildered and delighted look at his sister. At her. She realized then that launching oneself at the royal family of another country was not particularly befitting her station. She could feel the blood rising to her face, and she rapidly stepped away from the Shieldmaiden she had captured in her surprise embrace. The entire courtyard had erupted into laughter, but their laughs were full of joy.

Éowyn came forward and pulled Lothíriel in for a continued hug, then whispered for her ears only, “your cousin saved me as much as I saved him. Thank you for your lifetime of love for Faramir. Without his love, I would have succumbed to the shadow.”

Lothíriel was not sure if it was possible to love a person from the first moment she met them, but if it were, she knew she loved Éowyn. No wonder Faramir was so besotted. She turned her eyes back to Faramir, who was wiping a tear from his eyes and regaining his composure.

“Laugh all you want cousin, she has you under her spell,” Lothíriel spoke in Sindarin.

“Entirely.”

“Perhaps I will find my lips loose enough to share the story of your adventures with the Kracken,” the last, Lothíriel spoke in Westron. Faramir went a bit white.

“Kracken?” it was Éomer.  
Amrothos and Erchirion had doubled over, unable to control their laughter.

“Settle settle, children,” the sternness in Imrahil’s voice was betrayed by his continued attempts to stop from giggling, “This is behavior unbecoming a royal family.”

“I thought this get-together was  _ informal _ ,” friendly challenge was in Lothíriel’s voice now, “So you could introduce us to  _ friends _ without worrying about our  _ stations _ .”

Imrahil threw his hands up in surrender. Lothíriel knew he would. She smiled. Éomer looked uncomfortable at her words, but when she met his eyes, they shared a smile just for them.

“Uncle?” Faramir broke the moment, “Your ledger. So that it does not drag on, can we take some minutes to discuss it?”

“I suspected you’d ask. Sure, my sun room awaits.” Imrahil replied, and the two headed into the house.

“Even when he is attempting to be informal, I don’t believe Faramir can do it,” Lothíriel rolled her eyes.

“This seems a perfect opportunity to tell us the Kracken story,” Éowyn spoke softly but clearly.

Lothíriel grinned. Yes, she liked Éowyn.

“When I was 12 years old, Faramir came to visit us. He was walking along the beach when he came across a stranded octopus. We see them a lot, and mostly leave them be. But Faramir couldn’t, he wanted to save it,” Lothíriel started, “So he picked it up to put it back into the ocean. But the thing stuck to him, and wouldn’t let go. He started screaming and shaking his arms, then tripped over himself and fell into the water. Finally the octopus released him. When he returned to the palace, his arm had these little sucker marks on it from where the octopus had held on. We called them his hickies. We kept asking him if he was going to marry the octopus, and it just became a running joke.”

“Wait, how old was Faramir when this happened?” Éowyn was studying Lothíriel.

“28, I reckon,” Lothíriel replied

Lothíriel had not thought about that detail before. Faramir was a man grown who nearly died trying to save an octopus. The laughter was starting to come to her throat again, and she could see both Éomer and Éowyn had started to giggle as well. Suddenly, their laughter broke through and started to crescendo.

“Sister! I daresay you have a challenger for your love!” Éomer heaved as he spoke.

“Sounds like I need to spit roast some Amroth octopus!” Éowyn offered, snorting in her continued laughter.

“Poor heartbroken thing! All she wanted was to be hugged!” Lothíriel offered, and the laughter broke amongst them again. Amrothos and Erchirion had joined in.

“We’ll make sure octopus is served at your wedding. A gift from the children of Dol Amroth,” Amrothos grinned.

Faramir and Imrahil had emerged, still in intense discussion. Upon seeing the conspiratorial grins on all faces around them, both stopped dead.

“I… do I even want to know…” Imrahil looked amused.

“Min elskede, I’ve asked that they serve octopus at our wedding.” Éowyn’s face was calm and still as she said this, though the twinkle in her eye was unmistakable.

“Oh no.” Faramir put his hand to his forehead.

“She still misses your embrace cousin!” Lothíriel matched the calm in Éowyn’s voice, feigning concern.

Another round of laughs began. Poor Faramir. Lothíriel turned her attention back to Éowyn and Éomer. Again, her eyes were captured in Éomer’s. It was all there. Fire and reverence. And dawning comprehension. It was only then that she realized the comprehension was her’s. It had started. Those butterflies when she looked upon the tall and handsome young King. Who loved his sister. She did not know how long it would take for him to win her heart fully, but she recognized now that he would, and that she wanted him to.

“Come and let us continue this revelry over snacks and drinks,” Erchirion spoke, “I should want to hear more. Éomer, Éowyn, can you tell me of your time with the new King?”

“Tomorrow you will meet him cousins,” Faramir smiled, “He, as well as the Hobbits, have accepted Imrahil’s invitation.”

Éowyn had gone slightly stiff at this conversation, and Faramir’s hand was immediately in her’s.  _ There is more to that _ , Lothíriel thought,  _ I wonder what _ .

“Alright then, I have patience enough for that,” Erchirion replied mildly, “Then tell me stories of Rohan.”

Both of the golden siblings obliged. The afternoon was full of songs and tales, of calamities that each in turn had found themselves in. Éowyn had nearly drowned as a child too… Éomer without trying came off as a loving and fiercely loyal older brother. He sat quietly while Éowyn told stories, and jumped in at his parts. At their explorations of the mountains. Of chasing the sunset on their horses. But there was sadness there too, something that was going unspoken. Seeing Éomer’s pain made Lothíriel want to reach out to him, take his hand, and try to will the sadness from his soul. But she stayed it. For now.

“We must be going,” Faramir stood, “Éowyn and I have pressing plans. Uncle, Éomer, please remember council tomorrow. The book of the dead awaits us.”

Both nodded solemnly, and Faramir and Éowyn were off. Her head laid lightly on Faramir’s shoulder as they exited the courtyard. Amrothos and Erchirion followed, wanting to enjoy the merriment in the city below them.

“Father? Might I be able to wander the city tonight? I can hear music on the lower levels,” something about the courtyard was pressing in on her, and Lothíriel wanted to experience the celebration for herself. She knew he would have to find her an escort. She did not care. Not tonight.

“I could… accompany you,” Éomer offered, furtively.

Both Lothíriel and Imrahil looked at the young King, who was turning red. Did she want to be alone with Éomer already? She was unsure.

As if reading her mind, Éomer coughed, adding, “The Steward sees that the King of Rohan has an escort. His name is Beregil. Former Ithilien Ranger, now assigned to Éowyn and me. Fine man. I have wanted to wander the city, unhailed, and hear the songs of celebration for myself… so… if you wanted… company…”

He was worried she wanted to say no. He was worried he was pushing too hard. It was almost too sweet for Lothíriel to bear. Escorted by a King, through a city she knew and he did not. As no more than two people enjoying the new dawn.

“Yes,” Lothíriel’s answer came without a cloud of doubt.

Éomer almost looked surprised.

“But…” Lothíriel smiled “change your tunic. Your hair announces you are Rohirrim without the threads that suggest royalty. And… keep your sword. For tonight you are no more than a soldier being escorted around by some unknown Gondorian woman.”

“As you wish. I shall return shortly,” Éomer stood (he was pleasantly tall…), bowed, and took his leave.

Lothíriel exhaled. So this is how it started.

“Don’t give me that look Ada.” she frowned.  
“I didn’t say anything,” his smile was aggravating.  
“I don’t know… yet.” Lothíriel said it, but knew in her heart that was a lie.  
“Okay mir tel’ear,” she wanted to bop his nose to make him stop smiling like that…

“Goodbye father.”  
Lothíriel rose, kissed her father’s forehead, and ran to her room.

She changed into a plainer dress, less showy, and braided her hair. Tonight, she would walk the city as Lothíriel, maiden of Dol Amroth to join in the celebration, with Éomer, man of Rohan. Thoughts and designs of princesses and kings could wait. Tonight, all she wanted was to get to know Éomer the person.


	25. Éowyn 6

Today would be a day of memories. Of this, Éowyn was sure. She knew she would remember the beating of Faramir’s heart as she touched his naked chest for the first time. She would remember his exquisite body, cut from marble but softened by the dark hair announcing that he was a man grown. She would remember the softness of his skin, the coarseness of his chest hair, his scent. She would remember that every moment her hands were on him, she wanted to touch more. She would remember wanting to pull herself closer to him and feel his hands on her too. She would remember the look of barely contained desire on Faramir’s face as she touched him. She would remember his hand in her hair as he tasted her mouth with his tongue...

She would remember the black ledger, full of the names of the dead. Of her friends, of her brethren. She would remember crying with him, letting their grief over fallen friends intermingle and cleanse them both. She would remember the cost of their victory in the names and faces of the fallen, and she would remember to take care of each and every person those soldiers had left behind.

She would remember the conspiratorial laughter she shared with Gimli and Legolas as she spirited away the Steward’s ring. She would remember Faramir’s smirk as he passed her the note she’d left him when she took his ring, and his single comment, “I trust you.” She would remember both the unqualified hug she received when she met Lothíriel, as well as Éomer’s bemused and enamored face as he followed the raven haired beauty’s steps. Yes, Lothíriel would be her sister-in-law. She wondered how long it would take for her brother to realize it too.

But too she would remember the distressed look on Faramir’s face when he spoke of their revelatory dinner, and the haunted look on Aragorn’s face as he announced he would be attending too. Éowyn wondered if the good memories or bad memories would win the day.

She had just left the incomparable company of Prince Imrahil and his children, coaxed into sharing stories of Rohan by Lothíriel. The afternoon passed more quickly than she had imagined, but as the light in the sky waned, Éowyn could feel her muscles tense as she thought about dinner. A private dinner with Merry and her beloved sounded wonderful, but it could not quell the feeling of worry. Faramir had also started tensing as they made their way toward the guest houses, clearly he was thinking the same thing. In front of Éowyn’s apartment they both stopped. Faramir was about to leave when Éowyn grabbed his hand.

“I want to read it. Here,” Éowyn had made up her mind, “But I want you here with me when I do it.”

Faramir’s expression was inscrutable.

“I’ll wait while you go and get the book,” Éowyn said,  _ please Faramir _ .

Faramir sighed and nodded, then kissed Éowyn’s mouth, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Faramir jogged away. Éowyn followed his path with her eyes, then finally turned to go into her apartment. Before she made it inside, she glanced one last time. Looking at one particular window, she realized she was looking directly at Faramir’s office window from her door. She suspected that was not a coincidence… She decided to keep watching, and saw a faint light come on in the window. Faramir had gone to retrieve  The Elven Arts of Healing . She wondered if he would also look out the window. Sure enough, his shadow appeared in his window. Éowyn waved, in case he was looking.  _ There could be some benefit to this _ , she thought,  _ perhaps a way to let you know when I need you Faramir, or when you need me. _

Before she had time to finish her thought, Faramir was back, book and translation in hand. Éowyn opened her door, and both went inside. Faramir looked more strained now than when he had left her just minutes ago. Éowyn looked questioningly into his eyes.

“Yet another thing I should have told you before min elskede,” Faramir exhaled, “My window. Your door.”   
  
“I knew of your view Faramir,” Éowyn smiled, “You would never have let me leave by myself last night if you could not watch my progress.”

“I watch for  _ him _ ,” Faramir’s face became still, but fury was in it too.

“Is that why your bow sits at that window?”  


“...Yes…” Faramir had turned pale; concern, fury, and fear intermingled in his eyes.

“You didn’t tell me because you did not want to worry me,” Éowyn was speaking to herself, but speaking out loud, “You know the memories that speaking of him dredges up for me.”

Faramir was looking at her, astounded, “Yes…”

“You’re having nightmares of fire, can’t sleep, and so you must…” it hit her, “when you cannot sleep you stand guard at that window… watching.”

Faramir let out a little tremble, “yes…”

Éowyn trembled then too. She had never thought of the possibility of Gríma slithering to Minas Tirith. She could hear his muffled footsteps. His attempts to break into her room. Her stomach turned to ice, but then she looked into Faramir’s eyes, and realized that they were sharing this dark thought. She thought of her Ithilien Ranger, standing at that window in the darkened room, scanning to make sure that his beloved was safe, hand on bow… just in case. It made Éowyn feel safe. She pulled Faramir to her, and she kissed him forcefully, pulling him by his waist to her. His hands were around her waist now too, gentle but solid.

“Faramir…” Éowyn was whispering, her fingers caressing his jaw, “You don’t have to tell me every little detail. I knew you could see my path. You were protecting me, both from the ghoul who haunted me in Meduseld, and from memories of it.”

Faramir melted into her at her words, and she could hear him muttering apologies all the same. Most were unneeded, save for one.

“As with your fire dreams, I am more unhappy that you kept from me that you are having so much trouble sleeping,” she looked into Faramir’s eyes, projecting some sternness, but mostly concern, “I never want to be protected from your pain min elskede. I don’t want to find out your fear for me keeps you glued to a window looking for demons crawling in the night. And I don’t want you to wait until it’s been many nights to tell me your dreams are haunting you away from your sleep. I am strong enough for all you must place upon my shoulders, because to heal and love you heals me in kind.”

Faramir looked at her once more, full of tenderness and love, “I fear that keeping from telling you things I know may bring you hurt will forever be one of my faults. Please chastise me every time I do this, but I fear protecting you will always be my first instinct.”

Éowyn gazed back at her beloved raven haired Steward, “I will. And to hide your fears and pain from me is no protection, it is just prolonging the inevitable hurt, made worse by my fear you are not telling me for a reason.”

Her words struck, and Faramir pulled her in more closely again, “I’m so sorry min elskede.”

“Faramir, we have a lifetime to figure out the right balance,” Éowyn kissed his lips, “Just as fighting a Wraith did not break me, neither will hearing you are watching my door to make sure he does not slither into Minas Tirith.”

Éowyn pulled Faramir closer to her then, positioning her lips at Faramir’s ear.

“Plus, there are other uses for your watch,” she whispered as quietly as she was capable, and could feel Faramir shudder at the sensation, her whispers each a caress, “I do not sleep well either. And on nights I have nightmares, I will place a candle in my window. So you will come to me.”

“Min elskede…” Faramir seemed to say that when he was reading her intentions as more carnal than their reality.

“Sometimes just having you near me is as good as a mother’s lullaby. To tell you of my dark dreams lessens my pain,” Éowyn looked into Faramir’s eyes then, “And I reckon the same can be said for you. If you light a candle, I will light one too. When you blow your’s out, I will come to you.”

“It may be better if I were the one to come to you, always,” Faramir replied.

“With my brother next door?” Éowyn remarked, “I suspect it is better to find my room empty with a note saying you and I are talking than to find you in that apartment with me.”

Faramir instinctively rotated his shoulder. Éomer likely wouldn’t do more damage than that, but he certainly was  _ capable _ .

“If we are truly going to attempt this scheme, then I will teach you stealth. I also will insist that you learn skills with a dagger,” Faramir had gotten a serious look on his face, but it was mingled with conspiratorial glee, it was wonderful.

“I accept,” Éowyn smiled, the thrill of their secret washing over her. Secret liaisons with her betrothed. So they could whisper of their sorrows under the stars. Éowyn felt warmer thinking about it.

“Now though, your book,” Faramir handed Éowyn her book, and the translation, “I’ve made sure this translation is perfect. I am here for you if you want me here, but I will wait outside, so you can decide for yourself if you need privacy.”

Faramir kissed her, then walked deliberately outside. Éowyn looked at the answers to the mystery sitting in her hand, and suddenly she was scared. The warmth of their conspiracy had drained away, replaced with dread.  The section was titled “Drawing Back Souls from the Shadow.” Éowyn looked outside, and knew he was there. But she wanted to discover for herself, for now. She started reading.

Each word was ice, piercing her ever deeper. Her hand had started trembling, making it ever harder to read. But she pressed on. She needed to. She read the words again, Faramir’s words translated from Sindarin:  _ They will have to experience those sorrows and memories in full that have brought the sufferers to their accursed state. _ Dread filled her.

When Aragorn called them out of their shadow dreams, he lived every single thing in their lives that had caused them pain. Aragorn watched the memory of Éowyn’s mother abandoning her for death. He watched the sad resolve on her brother’s face when he left her for the next endless campaign. He saw Gríma’s hunger for her. He heard his muffled footsteps and insistent keys. He saw Gríma try to take her in the stables. And he saw his own indifference, and the crushing blow to her that it had caused. Every shame, every fear, every sorrow that Éowyn possessed, now too possessed Aragorn.

Éowyn dropped the book, and sat staring blankly at the room. Her ears had started ringing again, and she was underwater trying to make those passive faces save her from drowning. Éowyn tried to call to Faramir then, but she was paralyzed. Trapped in her shadow dream.

Then hands were holding her’s, and a face full of fear was emerging from the mist. Faramir’s. The one who now pulled her out of the water in her dreams. The one whose love she could call to and he would come. He would always come. Now his arms were around her and he was kissing her, and she could feel his tears and they were her tears too.

“I’m so sorry min elskede. I love you. You are my light Éowyn,” Faramir held her tightly, and she was present. Gríma was gone. She was not under the shadow anymore. The shadow had been defeated and a new dawn was upon them. She was in the arms of her beloved, who she shared all her sorrows with willingly. Who took on their burden as his own for the love he had for her. His sorrows were also her’s, and she took on their burden as her own for her love for him. And together they were healed.

“He knows… all our sorrows,” Éowyn tried to absorb it, “Mine. Yours. Merry’s.”

“Yes.” relief had flooded over Faramir’s face that Éowyn had come back to the present.

Éowyn felt naked, violated. Every moment Aragorn had looked on her since he returned he  _ knew everything _ . He knew the pain he caused her, he knew every large and small humiliation in her life that had brought her to such despair that she nearly succumbed to shadow. And he knew that his was the final blow. And he didn’t say a word of it. The numbness of her panic was wearing off and she was finding the other emotions that linked to this. She felt exposed, but she also felt burning fury overcome her. She wanted to find her sword and she wanted to take from Aragorn every single thing he had taken from her. She wanted to ride out, far away from this place and these people.

Suddenly the room felt too small, closed in and imposing upon her. Éowyn pulled herself from Faramir’s arms and threw open the door. It was almost night. She set off toward the lower levels of the city. Faramir followed her, but kept his distance. She needed to breathe. She needed to find a place she could breathe…

Her feet did the rest. She walked deliberately down to the sixth level, though the House of Healing, and into the gardens. Before she knew it she had climbed onto the eastward wall and had sat upon it, letting her feet dangle down into the abyss, and for the briefest of moments, wondered what it would feel like to fly. Faramir was to her instantly. His face was pale white as he looked at her, twisted in agony and worry. Éowyn looked at him, then down below her. She wanted to tell him that he had nothing to worry about, but that would not be entirely true. She looked out to the east.

“He marched to his death with my brother, knowing all the hurt he caused,” Éowyn’s voice was emotionless, “I didn’t think it was possible for him to take more from me than he had, yet, here we are. In the very place that he took the last pieces of me. Denying me my humanity was not enough. Denying me my glory was not enough. He needed to deny me my sovereignty too, by invading my mind. For someone who treated me with such indifference…”

Faramir had carefully seated himself next to Éowyn, but had not made moves to close the distance that was now between them.

“I am not sure if it is any consolation, but he didn’t know that would happen to him until it was too late,” Faramir didn’t look at Éowyn, he just looked out into the east, “At least that is what he told me when I confronted him in his bath this morning.”

Éowyn’s numbness broke. She looked at Faramir. Had she heard him..?

“You confronted the King. In his bath.”  
“Yes. I read him the exact passage from the book. In Sindarin. While he was in his bath.”  
“You’re still alive.”   
“There was a moment I was surprised a dagger was not sticking out of my eye… but. Yes. The way the King found out that we knew his secret was… because I walked in on him while he was naked and read him a book.”

It happened in a second. Éowyn felt her chest lurch, then the laughter came in great waves. Her proper and thoughtful Steward, calmly reading to a naked and vulnerable Aragorn a passage from a book. She could picture it. Faramir had scooted off the ledge and was holding out his hand for her’s. She took it. The force with which he pulled her away from the ledge told Éowyn just how worried he had been. She closed the rest of the distance and pulled him in for a tight hug. This man who was her’s. He was perfect.

“Are you okay min elskede?” Faramir tried to sound light, but there was deep unease in his voice.

“Yes,” Éowyn replied

Faramir pulled her to him and kissed the crown of her head. He then let his lips rest there. He was trembling. He knew of that fleeting thought, the one as she looked down and out over the wall.

“I will always find my way back to you.”  
Éowyn said the words into Faramir’s ear, then looked into his eyes. It took them a long while to let go of one another.

“He really did not know?” Éowyn asked.  
“No.” Faramir answered.  
“And he invaded your mind too?”  
“Yes.”

_ One more thing you and I share min elskede _ , Éowyn thought,  _ kindred sorrows and kindred violations. _ At least none of Faramir’s grief had been caused directly by his invader. At the same time, what had she expected Aragorn to do? Let her die perhaps. In that moment, she would have gladly chosen it. But Aragorn had invaded her mind and healed her, and in the process she and Faramir found each other. Without Aragorn, Éowyn would not have penetrated Faramir’s sorrows and brought him joy (and he would not have done the same for her). Without Aragorn, Éowyn would never have known such a love as she had with her raven haired Steward.

She did not know what she would say when she faced Aragorn. She did not know if she could forgive him for his invasion of her mind. She did not know how it would feel to face her shame, knowing that he was feeling every moment of it too. But she did know that she was safe; that Faramir knew her pain and would be there with her as she faced it. That he was a man who would confront a naked King to start healing the hurt that King had brought on those he loved.

“I’m ready,” Éowyn stepped back, then took Faramir’s hand, and the two headed back toward the Steward’s house. No matter the outcome of dinner, Éowyn also knew that tonight she would light a candle in her window.


	26. Aragorn 5

It had not been an easy afternoon. After telling Éowyn and Merry that he would be joining dinner, Aragorn had seated himself in Frodo’s room, replenishing the athelas, but mostly staring into the distance, arrested by his thoughts.

The pit in Aragorn’s stomach had not abated since his clandestine meeting with Faramir. In fact, it had gotten far worse, because he knew what awaited him that evening.

_ The truth awaits you _ , he thought,  _ it will free you from the binds of their sorrow. _

Aragorn had repeated those words to himself but they never completely sunk in. Faramir’s forgiveness had taken some of the sharpness of his pain away. He even started letting himself give in to the connection he now felt to the young Steward, finding that it brought him calm beyond what he was capable of producing. He knew there would be times that he would actively seek their connection out. And Faramir’s command of the first council meeting had solidified it for him: he would ask Faramir to stay Steward. Faramir would not refuse him, but he hoped he could make the young man see his own genius in the role. Two Rangers coming in from the wild to run a country.

But when Aragorn thought on Faramir, his mind now lingered also on Éowyn. Her sorrow haunted him, but there she was, walking out of the shadows she’d left in his soul, glowing with warmth and love. In all her memories, he had not seen who she was, only who she was afraid she would be. He had not seen her ruling Rohan while taking care of her uncle and fighting off Wormtongue. He had not seen her steadfast determination, so strong it destroyed a Wraith. He had not seen the love she so clearly glowed from when she looked at Faramir. He too had not seen her humor in those shadow dreams. A woman not intimidated by a King, even a King who nearly broke her, and would wear a spoon on her nose even as everyone else removed them. He wanted to know Éowyn too, he wanted to speak to her, to tell her the depth of his despair over what his indifference had done to her. He wanted her to feel his contrition. He wanted her to understand that his days of underestimating her were over, and she would be as much a part of his circle of advisors as her beloved brother and Steward were. But first, they had to overcome his violation, however inadvertent it had been.

Aragorn had already decided that he would rather tell Merry first, before dinner, so that at least he could properly apologize once. He had no doubt that Faramir would make sure Éowyn knew, so that she walked into that dinner emotionally prepared for the confrontation that had to be had.

“Merry?” Aragorn stepped back into Sam’s room, “can I have a private word with you, in the garden?”

Merry looked puzzled, but intense, and nodded. As the little Hobbit followed Aragorn through the House of Healing, he tried to imagine the words he would speak. He needed to convey it all, that he had invaded Merry’s thoughts, that Merry’s own light had warmed the chill that had come over him from saving Éowyn. Before he had even composed his first sentence, he found himself on the east-facing wall, Merry looking up at him.

“What is it Strider?” the innocence in Merry’s voice belied something else. Aragorn could feel protectiveness and challenge in him.

“When I drew you from the shadow, I… I experienced your sorrows as if they were my own,” Aragorn said, having decided direct was the best way to start, “I… didn’t know that it would happen. I’m sorry for not telling you Merry.”

Merry’s eyes held steady, without surprise. Aragorn could feel his understanding. Had Faramir told the Hobbit as well?

“Thank you for telling me Strider.” Merry turned his head from Aragorn then, looking out toward the mountains, “Please don’t tell Pip… how much it hurt. When the Uruks had me. Don’t tell him… how much I… wished for death.”

Aragorn could feel a tear forming in his eye. Merry, having found out that he had seen his thoughts, requested that others not feel more pain.

“I wouldn’t dream of it Merry,” Aragorn put his hand on the Hobbit’s shoulder.

Suddenly, he felt Merry twitch.

“When you say all our sorrows, you speak of Faramir, me, and  _ Éowyn _ , do you not?” Merry’s eyes were back on Aragorn, studying him.

Aragorn sighed, “I do.”

“Have you told them as well?”

Aragorn took his hand off of Merry’s shoulder. He had hoped that the Hobbit would not inquire.

“Faramir confronted me this morning. There’s a text… that explains the process.” Aragorn felt ashamed admitting this, ashamed that he himself had not told them the moment that he was back from the host and able. This should not have been a secret allowed to fester.

“Did you know what would happen when you drew us from the shadows?” asked Merry

“Not when I drew Faramir forth. But after that, yes. Even knowing beforehand, still I would have done it,” Aragorn replied. He would never apologize for saving their lives.

“So you know all of our sorrows?” Merry was pressing for something.

“I believe so, though only if we sat and talked long would I know for sure,” Aragorn replied. What was Merry trying to understand?

“So that must mean… you know what hurt you caused Éowyn.” Merry’s statement was final.

Aragorn shuddered. He could feel the little Hobbit’s pain. Merry knew about his indifference. Éowyn had shared her pain with him in the House of Healing.

“Yes.” Aragorn could say no more. He was spent. And yet he knew this was likely going to be the easiest of his conversations.

“I still don’t understand what caused you to do it,” Merry was pained as he said it, “I thought that you were different, able to see what was under the surface, in people’s hearts.”

“I was a fool. I didn’t trust her words,” Aragorn finally said, “And I didn’t trust her heart.”

“You sure were a fool Strider,” Merry confirmed Aragorn’s thoughts, “She has a good heart, and she found the love she deserves. So stop beating yourself up and apologize.”

Aragorn kneeled and gave the little Hobbit a hug. Merry did not hug him back. It saddened him.

“I needs must get back to my kinsman and Sam,” Merry coughed, “Thank you for saving my life Strider. See you at dinner.”

With that, the Hobbit turned away and Aragorn was left on the eastward wall. Alone. Merry’s response wasn’t all he had hoped for, but it gave him cause to hope. Merry was more upset over his treatment of Éowyn than he seemed to be over the shared secrets. Aragorn let himself exhale, and stood, just looking out over the plains. The same plains that would become his to rule, whether Arwen came or no. Aragorn could feel his own despair seep to the surface. He became a King so he could be with her, and he did not yet know if she would come.

Word had reached Gondor that Rivendell had been attacked by Moria and Mount Gundabad Orcs, along with Lothlórien and the Woodland Realm, and he knew that they were victorious. Arwen was unscathed in the conflict, further to Aragorn’s relief. But would she come? It was almost ridiculous that he had spent most of his adult life on a quest for the purpose of claiming a woman. It left claiming his birthright hollow, as if a consolation compared to winning her. He was not even sure he wanted the birthright, at least he was sure of his love for Arwen.

Aragorn’s thoughts then snapped back to the present, to Gondor. There was nothing he could do that had not already been done to bring Arwen to him. The decision now laid with her. All he could do was look at what was ahead of him. What he would become to this Kingdom. There were but four weeks before his fate was sealed. Four weeks to become the ruling King in a time of peace. He could start by making amends for the hurts he caused; to start the process of healing.

Aragorn sighed and headed back down through the city and found his way into his favorite garden. It was enclosed, but had a view of the Pelennor fields. The Dol Amroth party had made it to the lower gates, laden with both supplies for his coronation, as well as with Imrahil’s ecstatic children. Aragorn smiled. One family that had not been decimated by the cost of war. But that was not entirely true: the Amroth children had lost their uncle Denethor and their cousin Boromir.

Aragorn remembered Boromir’s confession in those final moments, that he had tried to take the ring. He remembered the grief on Boromir’s face. And he remembered comforting the man and helping ease his passing. Boromir had called him his King in that moment too, and Aragorn let the tears come to his eyes. Here he was, pining for the Elven maiden when a man pledged his allegiance to him while dying in his arms. Once he chose to be King, Gondor’s fate fell on his shoulders. He had chosen that responsibility, whether or not Arwen was by his side.

Aragorn sat for most of the rest of the afternoon in that small quiet garden, thinking. He thought of Frodo and Sam. He thought of the machinations of Gandalf, Galadriel and Elrond, and of playing his part in the grand game of defeating Sauron. He thought of his Rangers, the men and women who put their lives on the line to assure the safety of old Arnor’s inhabitants. He thought of Faramir. A Steward before his time with wisdom far surpassing his age. He thought of Merry, fighting quietly from the back of an Uruk, then overcoming his fear and attacking the Witch-King. He thought of Éowyn then too, standing up and laughing in the very face of Fear, then slaying a foe beyond the skill of any man.  _ Weak she is not _ , Aragorn thought. Underestimating her was a mistake he would never make again.

The sun was setting, and bathed the mountains in its golden light. It was now time to face them. To share their sorrows together, openly. And to hope that he could make amends with the one he hurt the most. Aragorn squared his shoulders, took one last longing glimpse at the garden, and headed toward the Steward’s House. Aragorn let his feet drag and he took in the city around him as he walked. His city. A city that pledged itself to him the moment news that the King had returned reached its ears. Tonight he would take the first step to be worthy of that city, of Gondor, of Arnor, by recognizing his mistakes with those he had harmed, and hopefully building trust with them. He knew in his heart that both Faramir and Éowyn would be integral to rebuilding this land in the wake of the new Dawn, and he wanted their partnership to be that of trusted friends, not that of a King and subjects.

_ Time to enkindle that trust _ , Aragorn thought as the Steward’s House came into view. Aragorn stopped. Just a few more strides and he was there. Was he ready? It didn’t matter. He would be ready. One last breath and Aragorn completed his journey, then knocked on the door. He could hear footsteps, then the door opened and he faced Faramir. Faramir’s face was pale, but composed. He nodded, and Aragorn followed him in. In the sitting room, Aragorn saw Merry, who looked gravely at him. A chess board sat in front of the Hobbit, its pieces showed that he and Faramir were in the middle of a game. Faramir then stopped.

“She’s in the garden,” Faramir looked intensely at him, “We will wait.”

Faramir then turned and sat down in the chair across from Merry without another word. He picked up a chess piece and moved it. Aragorn swallowed. This was a house where he was not King, but instead merely a man, asking for forgiveness. Aragorn then looked out into the Steward’s garden, and willed his feet forward.

She was sitting on a small bench, her back to him, reading. But the tension in her muscles told Aragorn she had heard him. Now that he had seen her, he did not know what to do next. Did he walk up to her and beg her forgiveness? Did he wait until she acknowledged him? He compromised, he closed the distance between them, then sat on the ground across from her. Éowyn laid her book in her lap, then looked at him directly in the eyes. Her face remained still but her eyes betrayed her fury, and her despair.

“Éowyn, I-” Aragorn started, then realized he had no idea what to say, “I… didn’t know.”

“What, my Lord?” Éowyn’s face was still placid, but her words were sharp.

He didn’t know that he would live their worst memories over and over. He didn’t know that those memories would possess him and rob him of sleep. He didn’t know that the careless words he directed at Éowyn would carry such deep pain. He hadn’t known that the mercy and strength she showed was beyond what he himself possessed. He didn’t know that seeing Éowyn, feeling the elation in her from being set free by him would cause him to retreat into callousness, afraid somehow her affection would taint the purity of his quest for Arwen.

“That I brought so much hurt,” Aragorn’s answer was succinct, but he hoped covered all.

“I did not know how deep your refusal to see what was in front of you ran, Lord Aragorn,” her words were coldly formal.

Aragorn could sense her misery, and as she felt it, so did he. Their connection was getting deeper, and it would drag both of them into the shadowy abyss. Aragorn had to do something.

“Please Éowyn, call me Aragorn,” it was a start, “I didn’t know that I would live your memories when I drew you from the Shadow.”

“You think that this pain and hurt is because you inadvertently lived our torments  _ Aragorn _ ?” Éowyn let out a mirthless laugh, but then she sighed warily, “All of us understand why you healed us, even after becoming aware of the great consequence. And we all would have made the same decision. We may feel violated, but your actions gave us our lives. That much is forgiven.”

“But the hurt to you runs much deeper…” Aragorn finished Éowyn’s thought.

“I can’t bring myself to understand…” a tear was forming in Éowyn’s eye, “why you thought I deserved to be treated with such scorn. What I had done...”

“Nothing…” their intermingled emotions threatened to overpower Aragorn, her anguish and his guilt, “You did  _ nothing _ to deserve my scorn.”

“Yet here we are,” Éowyn’s eyes had turned cold again. Aragorn could feel her nausea, her pain.

What did she want him to say?  _ The truth, all of it. You know all Éowyn’s secrets, so it is time that you open up and share your own with her. _ Aragorn let out a shuddering sigh.

“I am betrothed,” Aragorn wrested the words from his mouth, “I’ve loved her for 70 years, and been trothplighted for 30…”

Éowyn was silent. Her face remained expressionless, but her eyes were on fire and Aragorn’s gut lurched as her’s did. Éowyn broke out of her shock.

“Why did you not tell me this in Meduseld?” her voice was quivering, and he could feel her anguish. But she seemed to know the answer, and it settled over her like a black veil, “...because you did not trust me. Because I was but a naive maid in your eyes.”

The intermingled grief, from Aragorn’s guilt and Éowyn’s despair, broke through, and both felt their tears spreading over their cheeks. Aragorn knew Éowyn’s grief, and knew that she’d read the cruel reason for his indifference. It felt devastating, to finally be in the air between them.

“Yes,” the words were barely a whisper, “Because I was afraid. Afraid somehow that feeling and seeing you would distract me from my task. Arwen would not come to me, not marry me, unless I reclaimed my birthright and became King.”

“And so you now have,” Éowyn’s words were as labored as Aragorn’s.

“I… I didn’t want anything to distract me on my quest for her -”

“I was quested after too.” Éowyn interrupted, quietly, defiantly, “By Gríma. Women are not prizes.”

Her words had struck a deep blow, gutting him. She was right, Aragorn was treating Arwen as Gríma had treated Éowyn. He was sick with himself. And he deserved the shame he now felt.

Éowyn stood, then started walking out of the courtyard. Before she had made it to the archway, she paused, though did not turn back toward him.

“If Arwen has given you her heart; if she loves you,” Éowyn spoke, “She will come.”  
Without another word, she was gone.

Aragorn sat, frozen. As before, Éowyn’s most effective weapon against him was a mirror, holding it up exactly at those moments he was treating others the worst, to see himself through their eyes. He let himself treat Arwen’s hand as a prize to be won by his valor. He had allowed the promise of that prize turn his head away from the humanity of others. He let Arwen become a prize and Éowyn become an obstacle. Arwen was Eldar, with the knowledge of millenia, and by some miracle she had fallen in love with  _ him _ . Éowyn was a warrior and steward trapped in a woman’s body, with more courage and wisdom than most others triple her strength or triple her age.

Despite feeling worse than he had before they had spoken, Aragorn also felt lighter, the deep scars of the shadows were just a bit more healed than before he had walked into that garden. Éowyn’s words cut him, but they also exposed his worst notions and most poisoned assumptions to the fresh air. She would force him to change. Force him to be a better version of himself. And he knew he needed her more than she needed him.

An optimism materialized in him, that in time Arwen would come to him and love him, and that, in time, Éowyn would forgive him.


	27. Faramir 7

_ I can see the checkmate in front of me,  _ Faramir thought, but he could not take it. Not while Aragorn and Éowyn were in the garden. Was it the right decision, to let Aragorn and Éowyn face off? He did not know.

“Just take it Faramir,” Merry’s exasperated voice cut through Faramir’s worry.  
“Sorry Merry,” Faramir moved his knight into position, “Checkmate.”  
“You can’t stop thinking about them, can you?” Merry’s directness was a gift.  
“No.”

Faramir would never forget that fleeting moment when Éowyn looked down the precipice, and he  _ knew _ she had thought about jumping. The terror he felt in that moment was burned into his memory forever. In that moment he would have done anything to stop her pain. To take away everything that brought her to that grief. But then she turned to him, and the fleeting thought was gone from her eyes. And he knew, she would always find her way off the precipice and back to him.

Hurried footsteps broke Faramir’s concentration, and Éowyn was past him. Faramir jumped up and chased after her.

“I- I need to go,” Éowyn was shaking. Faramir pulled her in for an all-encompassing hug.

He should have known. This was a terrible idea. He should have talked to Aragorn himself, and to Éowyn. He should have kept the King away from his beloved while she came to terms with what it all meant, and healed. But he had pushed it. He wanted so dearly for all to be out in the open that he had pushed too hard.

“I’m so sorry min elskede. I am  _ so sorry _ ,” Faramir kissed the crown of her head and swallowed back his own tears, his shame.

“Faramir, I’m glad you arranged this. Your instinct was right. I just… don’t have energy anymore to stay for dinner,” Éowyn touched his cheek softly, he leaned into her caress.

“I will send something to your apartment,” as he spoke, he kissed her brow, “Actually, I will accompany you. One moment.”

Faramir nearly sprinted back to Merry, “I am taking Éowyn home. I will be back shortly.”

Merry nodded, and Faramir was off.

“Did you know that Aragorn has been betrothed for 30 years?” Éowyn was still trying to puzzle things out.

“No,” Faramir nearly stopped walking.

“All he had to do was tell me,” Éowyn’s voice was dark, “It would have been enough…”

“Enough to keep you in Meduseld?” Faramir couldn’t help himself, and he pulled Éowyn closer to him, smelling her lavender hair.

Éowyn did stop at this remark, and looked intensely at him, “yes.”

“I know the hurt he caused you. I know the shame you feel for your decisions after he turned away from you. But still I am glad he did,” the words poured from Faramir’s mouth, he could not help but release them, “Because without him, I would not have you. In all of this min elskede, you rode into my life and gave it meaning. The day you decided to ride to Gondor was the day my life changed. Even though I know I should feel such anger for your pain, still I cannot contain my joy, because that pain brought your light into my life.”

  
Faramir pulled Éowyn’s hand to his mouth, and kissed her fingers. He loved her so much it hurt, and he wanted to drain the pain away from her. But he also wanted her to understand why he could so easily forgive Aragorn for the pain his indifference had cause his beloved. Éowyn’s lips showed the faintest of smiles, and he knew he had won, he had shone light into her shadows.

“I will forgive him. In time,” Éowyn gently freed her hand from his kisses, “And I know he feels remorse. It was the strangest thing. As if I could feel his emotions as we spoke. I could feel his guilt. His pain. It was… too much. For now.”

It then occurred to Faramir that he felt the same thing. He had supposed it was empathy, but it seemed to run deeper. The book had not said anything about what came after the healer had succeeded in drawing one from the shadows. Were Merry, Éowyn, and himself now forever psychically linked to Aragorn? Faramir made a note that he would ask. They arrived at Éowyn’s door. Faramir pulled her in for an encompassing hug, a hug that made up for a lifetime of being apart, a hug that begged her to be okay. When they broke apart, Éowyn’s face was serene.

“Look for my candle,” she whispered as she removed her hand slowly from his hair, then turned and went into her apartment.

He had heard her right. An hour into her discovery that he kept a vigil over her door, she had found a way for them to be together when they needed each other most. He knew that they would keep the promise they made to each other to keep their wedding night sacred. Even in those moments of bliss in his office, her hands touching him, still he knew he could control himself with her. It was relieving. And the idea that he could seek her out when his fire dreams overwhelmed him held a comfort that he had not felt since they before they started haunting his mind. Faramir was not sure that Éomer’s watchful eyes would miss his sister sneaking out to be with her betrothed, but trusted that Éowyn would ensure that neither ever had to deal with Éomer’s blind rage in their late nights together. The sparring and the bruises would be well worth having Éowyn’s company, her comfort.

He finally turned around to head back to the Steward’s House. Aragorn and Merry would be waiting for him, for their dinner. Even without Éowyn, the three needed to sit together and talk, and heal. When Faramir returned, he found Aragorn across from Merry at the chessboard, losing to the Hobbit. Both looked up at him, with shared concern on their faces.

“How is she?” Aragorn started, misery clear on his face… and inside Faramir…

“She’s okay,” Faramir replied, “She is strong. She will heal.”

Aragorn nodded, but the knot in Faramir’s stomach told him that the King’s turmoil was far from over. Faramir let his mind connect to Aragorn’s, gently pressing his faith in Éowyn’s strength into Aragorn’s mind. When their eyes met, Faramir could tell Aragorn felt him, and understood everything in his action.

“You… feel it... too,” Aragorn’s eyes were locked with Faramir.

“Yes,” Faramir replied, “So did she.”

Aragorn went a little pale.

“Strider, stop feeling nauseous, I needs must eat, and was starving but a moment ago!” it was Merry. Both looked down at the Hobbit in confusion and dawning apprehension.

“You… you too Merry?” Aragorn looked astonished, and the slightest bit scared.

“I didn’t want to tell you, because you’d been fretting all day,” Merry shrugged, “It seemed a revelation better shared tonight over dinner.”

“Another thing I suspect that was not made clear when you drew us from the shadow,” Faramir said.

“Seems there were many things that had not been made clear,” Aragorn shuddered.

“So, you lived all our sorrows. You experienced every memory in our life that brings us pain. Everything that drew us closer to succumbing to the shadow, then willed us away from it,” Faramir said the words matter of factly, but knew that both he and Aragorn were seeing some of those cursed memories before their eyes.

“And now when I am near you, I experience your emotions as my own,” Aragorn pressed his fingers into his forehead, trying to escape the images in his mind. Faramir did not know what he was living, but could feel his panic and shame.

“That appears to go both ways,” Faramir replied, “What memory is causing you such pain in this moment?”

Merry was looking as raptly at Aragorn as Faramir was, which he supposed meant Merry was experiencing the panic and shame as well.

“One of Éowyn’s. The one I caused,” Aragorn trembled.

“Perhaps leaving you two alone to confront each other in the garden was not one of my best ideas,” Faramir spoke dryly.

“As opposed to confronting me in the bath?” Aragorn’s words were grave, but Faramir could feel his amusement.

“What?” Merry had stood up, and was turning slightly red from suppressing laughter.

“That was one of my better decisions,” Faramir grinned at the King, “As is suggesting we retire to the dining room to eat. Éowyn’s portion has been sent to her apartment - sorry Merry - but there is plenty of food still. I daresay there is much still to talk about.”

Aragorn smiled, and Faramir could feel his mood lightening ever so slightly. All then walked to the dining room where supper was set before them. The Steward’s cooks had outdone themselves. Even Merry looked impressed at the variety. When Faramir looked on their faces, he knew they were whispering and marveling at their new King. Aragorn let out a deep breath, and calm optimism overpowered Faramir. Everything would be okay.

“Merry, I will tell you about the conduct of your Steward if you tell me about the spoons.” Aragorn’s smile grew.

“You first,” Merry folded his arms.

“I underestimated Faramir’s skills as a Ranger,” Aragorn replied, “He caught me naked and unprepared, then just read the passage of  The Elven Arts of Healing about drawing people to the shadow. When he was done, he got up, gave me a parcel of clean clothes, and left me to my bath.”

“To be completely fair, you could have hit me square in the eye with that dagger,” Faramir smiled.

Aragorn laughed, and Faramir could feel more poison and sadness exiting the King.

“Now your turn Merry, why was Éowyn wearing a spoon when I called upon Éomer this morning?” the wrinkles around Aragorn’s eyes had become pronounced.

“Pip and my idea. We had a bet going, who could wear a spoon on their nose the longest. Éowyn won… oysters from Dol Amroth from Imrahil, a bushel of wild strawberries she herself offered, truffles from Éomer, a bundle of Longbottom leaf from Pip, and a can of salted Brandywine sweetfish from me.” Merry was smiling now too, “Though there is going to be a rematch. The Prince seems to think that Lothíriel is a match for Éowyn.”

Faramir’s laugh echoed through the entire house. He was having trouble containing it. His cousin and Éowyn, head to head in a game of who could wear spoons on their noses. He feared that he would be wed with a spoon still on Éowyn’s nose, the maid of honor also still wearing a spoon.

“That is going to be a bad idea,” Faramir replied, “You are matching two of the strongest wills that exist in Middle Earth.”

“Is it open to anyone?” Aragorn inquired.

“I suppose so,” Merry looked at Aragorn curiously, “Surely you can’t join Strider, you’re the King.”

“That did not appear to stop Éowyn,” Aragorn sighed, but Faramir could feel echoes of joy in Aragorn’s gut.

“I fear that will also not stop Lothíriel,” replied Faramir, “Though she seems to be distracted now by another King.”

Merry looked at Faramir, delight in his eyes.

“That is wonderful! Poor Éomer, he so fretted when he received your letter asking for Éowyn’s hand,” Merry was smiling, “I should like to see him as besotted as you two.”

Faramir smiled internally, feeling the fire of his love for Éowyn burn in his gut. In a brief moment, Aragorn had caught his eye, and he could see contentment and joy on his face as well.

“You deserve your love,” Aragorn had taken Faramir’s hand, “And so does she.”

“She will forgive you.” Faramir willed his certainty into the King.

“I will make sure I earn that forgiveness,” Aragorn replied, “I am patient. And at least now I understand the depth of my mistake. I am haunted by how many potential friendships and advisors I have overlooked due to their being born women. Éowyn was the cruelest of my misunderstandings. Somehow, even in her moment of glory, proving  _ everyone _ wrong, still I called her weak. She showed mercy where I do not think even I could have. She shepherded Rohan while her uncle was being poisoned by a man who was trying to claim her, whispering poison in her ears all the while. No. She is one I hope will be one of my closest advisors for the years of my reign.”

Faramir smiled. Yes, the King finally understood the quality of Éowyn.

“Even today, she chastised me. It cut me so deeply it will cause a lasting wound,” Aragorn continued, “I’ve been in love with the same woman for near 70 years, and trothplighted to her for 30. Her father said I could not marry her unless I was King - the only way he believed I would be worthy of her. And so, over all those years I quested after this station, solely so I could win her. Then with four words, Éowyn cut me down.” “What were her four words?” Faramir asked

“Women are not prizes,” Aragorn shuddered again, and Faramir could feel his shame. again. “Gríma quested after Éowyn, making her the prize at the end of his machinations to destroy Rohan. I managed to treat Arwen, the woman I love, one who gave me her heart and promised herself to me, as if she were a prize that my Kingship won.”

Faramir could feel the blood in his face rising. He knew Aragorn would be able to feel his fury, but he did not care. During the darkest nights when his fire dreams overwhelmed him, Faramir had half a mind to ride out alone to seek Gríma, to cut him down and send him into the earth, where he belonged. Aragorn looked at Faramir, feeling his uncontrollable rage.

“She granted him a mercy he did not deserve,” Faramir’s fists clenched.

“Yet she protected her uncle from further shame, and she forced that despicable man into her debt for his life,” Aragorn replied, and Faramir could feel Aragorn reaching into his mind, “And still you watch for him, don’t you?”

“I do,” Faramir was not sure he wanted Aragorn to know of his vigil, but there they were.

“He was in Isengard when we last parted, hiding with Saruman, being guarded by the Ents,” Aragorn looked into Faramir, trying to calm him, “But I will ask Legolas to sketch the wretch. And we will make sure the guards of Minas Tirith know his face. We will keep our eyes open for him.”

“Thank you,” Faramir reached for Aragorn’s hand, and squeezed it.

“What exactly did Wormtongue do?” Merry was looking at both suspiciously.

“He haunted her, and he hunted her,” Faramir replied, “Beyond that, I would not break my beloved’s trust. If you asked, I believe she would share Merry.”

“Actually, I am not sure I want to know,” Merry said, “It is enough to know that she is far away from the memories of that place and her cage.”

The chill of guilt radiated from Aragorn, and all felt it.

“Strider, you need to stop feeling so bad, for I fear I will lose my appetite before dessert,” Merry huffed, “So many good things happened because of your bad decision. Éowyn let me ride with her to Gondor, so I could help my friends. And I got to watch her laugh in the face of that horrible Wraith - for she was the one who gave us all strength to fight through our fear. And I got to help kill the Nazgûl, the same one who grievously wounded Frodo. Now she found her true love in Faramir, whose heart would not have healed without her… so... don’t do it again, but… thanks for doing it this time.”

Something about Merry’s incredulity finally broke through the guilt-laden moment, and all began to smile.

“...Betrothed for 30 years, and here I am fretting the months without Éowyn as my wife,” Faramir mused.

“Arwen Undomiel. She looked like Lúthien come back to Middle Earth…” Merry’s grin was enormous.

But Aragorn was sad again, “I do not yet know if she will come. Arwen is asked to make the choice of Lúthien to be with me, forsaking her kin until the end of time. I ask her for so much simply to love me.”

Faramir and Merry felt Aragorn’s despair as a deep pit in their stomachs, so heavy it was.

“Yet you’ve waited for each other under the press of the Shadow,” Faramir was thoughtful, “It matters not what deeds you have accomplished in trying to win her. If she has given you her heart, she will come, be you King or no. And it sounds as if you’ve surrendered your hearts to one another.”

“She was really beautiful,” Merry was lost in his own thoughts, “More beautiful than any others I have seen.”

“If she is truly Lúthien reborn, then I say I am grateful that I prefer the golden light of the morning to the waning light of the eve,” Faramir winked, and thought of the beautiful maiden he had kissed not an hour ago. He thought then of all the mornings of their lives, waking bathed in her light. Forever.

Aragorn laughed, and Faramir was certain he was laughing for the love both of them were feeling in that moment. It felt good. Faramir laid his hand back on Aragorn’s, “trust her heart.”

The rest of the evening was full of laughter and hope. Aragorn opened up about his own sorrows, of the press of expectations that stalked his every step. Of being hunted by Sauron and his spies. But also of how he fell in love, and the adventures that he’d had to prepare himself for becoming King. Faramir liked their bond, he liked being around Aragorn. Their friendship was inevitable. And he had hope, hope that sorrows could be healed. Hope that Éowyn would forgive, and Arwen would come.

Before they knew it, they had finished the dessert and a nice port from Denethor’s hoard. Merry had said his goodbye, and headed back to his guesthouse. Aragorn lingered. Faramir could sense apprehension in the King.

“What causes your anxiety?” Faramir knew what attempting to sleep with a pit in your gut was like.

“I want to ask you…” the pit in their stomachs got more insistent, “would you consider… staying on as my Steward… after… coronation?”

Aragorn’s butterflies reminded Faramir of what it had felt like asking Éowyn to accompany him that first day they met in the House of Healing. The King was  _ nervous _ about asking for this. But Faramir had not considered it. He had always seen coronation as the end. As his escape into Ithilien to live in bliss with Éowyn.

“I would not deny my King,” Faramir did not lie, and knew immediately that Aragorn sensed his apprehension.

“I am not yet King Faramir, tonight I am merely a man,” Aragorn looked into Faramir’s eyes, “What brings your doubt and formality? Tell me truly.”

Faramir sighed, even if he was capable of lying to his King, the bond he felt with Aragorn the man would not allow him to.

“I dream of Ithilien Aragorn,” Faramir admitted, “It may look to some a broken land, but all I see is its beauty, and its potential. Sometimes I think about resettling in Emyn Arnen, the former seat of the House of Húrin, so that I can make Ithilien whole.”

“Have you spoken to Éowyn about your dreams?” Aragorn probed, and his interest was palpable.

“Yes, of course,” Faramir replied, “She has plans to plant a garden, and establish a small House of Healing there.”

Aragorn smiled deeply, and Faramir felt some resolve come over him.

“And if you were Steward  _ and _ established in Ithilien?” Faramir thought he saw where this was going, but he did not allow himself to hope.

“I don’t think I could ask for anything more,” Faramir replied, “Though being Steward still feels like sitting in my father’s chair. It does not fit me right.”

“You will be a Steward under a King,” Aragorn’s voice was calm, but his hope was lapping at Faramir, “Your father’s chair is no longer the right chair for the new Dawn. Every decision you have made has been the right decision. Down to confronting me in my bath. Your letter to Dale was mastery. Your decision to include Éowyn as a member of council was perfect. You took on a job never meant for you while I tarry and hide from my own responsibility. I want you by my side, and I want you to accept. Not because I am your King, but because I am your friend, and you recognize both my need and your quality.”

Faramir was frozen. He nearly fell over. Aragorn, the King, and the man, who battled wills with the dead  _ and  _ Sauron was nearly begging him to be Steward. Aragorn had praised him in those moments in ways his own father had never praised him. It felt warm, but also chilling.

“Please give me a few days to think it over.” that was the best Faramir could do for the moment.

Aragorn smiled, and nodded. Faramir could feel disappointment, but also hope.

“I will ask you again in 2 days, and I hope to have your decision by then,” Aragorn said, ““Thank you… for this evening, and this morning. You truly are a remarkable man.”

With that, Aragorn was gone. Faramir looked around his big empty house. The Steward’s House. His father’s house. He sighed, tonight would be a night of fire dreams.

Then he remembered.

Faramir sprinted up the stairs, directly into his office and looked out his window. A single candle was in Éowyn’s window. Faramir grabbed his own candle, and placed it into the window too. The candle in Éowyn’s window immediately extinguished.

Faramir grabbed his dagger and put it into its sheath, then nearly tripped down the stairs in his haste. 30 seconds to sprint to her apartment. He had timed it. Before she had made it out her own door, he was there. Éowyn backed back into her apartment, and Faramir followed her in.

“Tell me your sorrows min elskede,” Faramir said, and they closed the door behind them.


	28. Éomer 6

Éomer stared at the tunic he had replaced the embroidered one with. He wondered if he looked plain enough not to be immediately recognized as a King. In truth, he did not feel like a King, so it was hard to judge if he looked like one. Éomer sighed, this should not be this hard. He decided he looked acceptable, re-buckled his sword belt, and headed out of his apartment. Why was he so nervous? It was nothing, just taking part in the celebrations incognito. With Lothíriel. Whom he could not stop thinking about.

Beregil was outside waiting for Éomer.

“Do I look like a King?” Éomer asked his escort.

“I assume that you do not want to look like a King?” Beregil assessed Éomer’s dress.

“Not tonight,” Éomer replied

“You carry yourself nobly, but that does not mean you look like a King,” Beregil answered, “I’m afraid I may be the giveaway.”

Éomer frowned, he had promised Lothíriel an escort of Gondor, and the ability to blend in.

“Let me go change into something less conspicuous.” Beregil smiled, “where should I meet you?”

“Prince Imrahil’s,” Éomer replied. He was aware of the color rising in his face.

“I will call upon you in a quarter hour there,” and Beregil was gone.

Éomer took a deep breath, and headed back to the Prince’s house. His steps quickened as he went, thinking of who awaited him. He could not stop thinking about her eyes. They twinkled of their own inner light, gray and intelligent, lined with dark lashes. Her laugh was like the ringing of a bell. He would have been satisfied just to sit quietly in her presence all day, listening to her laugh. And when  _ he _ was the cause? She directed her light and joy at him and he bathed in it too. He would have to think of more stories that brought that joy out of her.

Her door was now in front of him. He stopped and looked at it, then knocked. Éomer was a man of action. He would run down his fear and apprehension, whether it was on the battlefield, or in matters of the heart. He heard footsteps, soft. His heart lurched. Lothíriel was on the other side of the door. Gently it opened, and those gray eyes were locked in his again. She had braided her hair, and changed into a gray dress. Her dressing down did little to hide her beauty, and Éomer was enraptured.

“Good evening Éomer,  _ man _ of Rohan,” Lothíriel smiled brightly at him, then looked around, “I thought you promised an additional companion for our walk through the city?”

“Oh. yes.” Éomer was having a hard time finding words, lost in the depths of Lothíriel’s eyes, “He is meeting us here. He is changing to be less conspicuous.”

“Ah yes!” her laughter was music, “A guard of Gondor would certainly bring notice. Please come in!”

Éomer smiled and followed Lothíriel in. Her gait was tense, he wondered if she was as nervous as he was.

“You look…” Éomer started the sentence, but did not know how to finish it. She looked beautiful. She looked kissed by Elbereth. She looked “...convincing.”

Lothíriel turned around, gaping at him, “Convincing? … as do you!”

His words were not the right words. Looking at her made all thoughts and eloquence escape his brain. He was never a master wordsmith anyway.

“And beautiful,” Éomer added, feeling the heat come to his face. No, he was not good with words.

Lothíriel though smiled, and he could see a flush come over her as well. Being honest. That was how Faramir won his sister. That would also be the way to Lothíriel’s heart. That was what Faramir had said. That was what Éowyn had said.

“Are those words you use on every woman you come upon, man of Rohan?” Lothíriel’s eyes twinkled. He liked looking into her eyes.

“ _ Knight _ of Rohan. I don’t think that any will be convinced that I am a man at arms,” Éomer could feel the corners of his eyes crinkle. Were his eyes twinkling too?

Lothíriel laughed. Crisp and clear as a bell.

“And no,” Éomer finished.

He had never said those words to any before, save possibly for his mother. Éomer found the dance of wooing to be uncomfortable. It felt so close to what Wormtongue had done to Éowyn.

“I- I’m sorry Lothíriel. I am not good at all this stuff,” Éomer blurted out,  _ honesty _ , “I watched a man try to use words to trap my sister. It put a permanent sour taste in my mouth.”

Lothíriel paused, studying Éomer again, but instead of the frown Éomer expected, he saw a shy smile appear on her face.

“I’ve been taught my entire life that words were weapons,” Lothíriel replied, “And as I cannot effectively duel with a sword, so I duel with words.”

“I fear I am woefully outmatched for such a duel,” Éomer admitted.  _ Honest. _

“Then think of this as a dance,” Lothíriel smiled at him, “And let me take the lead.”

Éomer smiled. His nerves were abating, and he was feeling…  _ comfortable _ . Her words and her presence put him at ease. Finally, another knock on the door announced that Beregil had returned. Lothíriel brushed past Éomer to answer it, and he felt a thrill as her arm inadvertently made contact with his.

Just before she opened the door, Lothíriel turned a look back at Éomer, “come  _ knight _ of Rohan, the city awaits us.”

He followed without hesitation. Beregil was at the door, hardly recognizable in his plain clothes. A man at arms of Gondor, out for the night. Éomer saw that Beregil carried a sword, but also a dagger. He wondered if Beregil was wearing chainmail under his clothes. It was clear that Beregil knew about stealth. Ithilien Ranger indeed.

“Princess Lothíriel, it is a pleasure,” Beregil bowed, “I will watch, but keep my distance. A woman of Gondor and a man of Rohan already begs attention. Adding another soldier from Gondor and you would take far too much notice.”

Éomer looked at Beregil, and saw him wink. Éomer and Lothíriel would be alone, but they would also be safe. Éomer placed his hand on his own sword. Two swords to protect the Princess of Dol Amroth. Good. He wondered at Beregil’s skill with the blade, perhaps he would ask his escort for some sparring. Éomer offered Lothíriel his arm, which she took, and they stepped out the door. As they walked, Beregil fell in behind them. Close enough to intervene should it be needed, but far enough back not to obviously be guarding them. He was good.

“Where was your father?” it had only just then hit Éomer at the absence in Imrahil’s house.

“Upstairs in his study. He is reading over some of the work Faramir sent,” replied Lothíriel, “And because I asked him to stay upstairs.”

Éomer let out a chuckle. So, honesty was going both directions for them. That was good.

“It appears you may need to take the lead again  _ lady _ of Gondor, as I do not know this city,” Éomer admitted.

“It will be my pleasure,  _ knight _ of Rohan,” Lothíriel replied, and he could hear that musical undertone in her voice. The one that he heard when she laughed. He liked that sound.

“As we are incognito, should we not find names less clearly of princess and king?” Éomer had lowered his voice, he remembered the days of fighting imaginary dragons with Éowyn, “Call me Hemling the bold.”

Lothíriel threw her head back and let out that intoxicating laugh.

“I must know the story of Hemling the bold,  _ knight _ of Rohan,” she chortled, “For that was much too fast for spontaneous invention.”

Éomer smiled sheepishly. She marked him.

“I will trade you the story of Hemling for your own name,  _ lady _ of Gondor,” Éomer replied.

“I take the deal,” Lothíriel turned her head, in deep concentration, “Andawel, daughter of seafaring merchants, who is visiting the city to be at the coronation of the new King. And now… Hemling, tell me who you are.”

“Hemling would slay dragons in the fields of Rohan with his sister,” Éomer’s smile was bright, “He and she would rescue maidens from towers.”

“Did Hemling’s valiant sister have a name?” Lothíriel had moved just slightly closer to Éomer. He liked it.

“Hemwing.” Éomer shrugged, “We were not the most creative with our names, solely our deeds.”

Lothíriel laughed again. It filled the night with music.

“Well Hemling, follow me and we will find our celebration of the new Dawn,” Lothíriel tightened her grip, and her pace quickened.

As they descended through the city, the sounds of voices and singing were everywhere. Celebration surrounded them, and they absorbed the joy of their neighbors. Éomer wondered where Lothíriel was going, until he saw a small biergarten.

“Do you have coin Hemling?” Lothíriel whispered, and Éomer, embarrassed, realized he did not.

“No- oh, let me go…” Éomer started, feeling color rise in his cheeks. How had he not thought of this? He was escorting a Princess around the city and did not think to bring coin.

“Here, enough for the night.” Lothíriel subtly passed him a money bag, and her smile was conspiratorial, “a merchant’s daughter always keeps a bit of coin. And I don’t think they would take the money of Rohan.”

“Thank you… I of course will repay you in full,” Éomer was still beat red. He was failing at wooing.

Lothíriel laughed, “Pay me with stories and deeds. Neither of us needs think on coin.”

Éomer was not sure he liked that much better. Both then walked into the colorful pub. The energy in the place was warm and jubilant. Éomer could see flaxen hair and dark hair intermingled. Lothíriel had chosen well. There was a small band in the corner playing songs in Westron. Beregil had positioned himself at the bar, with them in his line of sight. Éomer and Lothíriel found a table, and Éomer placed an order for two ales.

“So Hemling. What was your absolute favorite thing to do as a child?” Lothíriel started.

“Probably race. I loved galloping through the fields with my cousin and my sister,” Éomer replied, “How about you Andawel?”

“Sailing into the sunset. With my brothers,” Lothíriel replied, “You are chasing the sun to have your proper goodbye.”

“It sounds beautiful. My sister and I used to race the sunset too, but our sea was a sea of grass,” Éomer replied.

“Perhaps you can one day show me. I’ve only ever really traveled Gondor, and should like to see Rohan too,” Lothíriel didn’t make eye contact at her statement, her cheeks reddening. Éomer though smiled, and could feel his smile spread through the whole of him. He would love to gallop a horse into the sunset with Lothíriel.

“Yes. I would love to,” Éomer caught her eyes, and saw the twinkle he hoped would be there, “And perhaps you could take me sailing. Though I have a fear of the water.”

“Why?” Lothíriel asked, and Éomer saw that vision of his sister, blue in his arms as he tried to bring life back to her, Lothíriel seemed to recognize the memory, “Because your sister…”

Éomer nodded solemnly. He could count on one hand the moments in his life that he had truly been terrified. They nearly all involved Éowyn. The first was the death of their father. Second was the day Éowyn nearly drowned. The third was the day in the stables. And the fourth was Éowyn on the Pelennor. All other memories and pains were nothing compared to those.

“You can tell me of what pains you. I will listen,” Lothíriel placed her hand on Éomer’s. It was the lightest of touches, but it effused warmth.

“Our father died when we were young. And our mother just sort of… gave up,” Éomer replied.

He could see the pale shell of his mother, catatonic in her grief. Éomer would never let someone love him so much his death would cause them to neglect others who loved them. Éomer took Lothíriel’s hand as he thought on it.

“And there were so many moments that I almost lost my sister. That I couldn’t save her,” Éomer could feel shame bubble up as he thought on it. He felt Lothíriel squeeze his hand.

“It sounds as if you do not give yourself enough credit,” Lothíriel leaned into Éomer’s ear, “She came to Gondor and delivered it from one of its worst enemies. And she found love, and a way to bring smiles to my cousin’s eyes. I never thought I would see him happy, and yet here we are. So perhaps those moments you thought you failed, you did not.”

Éomer looked into those thoughtful eyes. He wanted to argue, but realized that Lothíriel was right. Through it all, Éowyn was whole and happy. She had not perished on the Pelennor. She had not been violated by Wormtongue. She had not drowned in the river. He had done his work as the big brother. A smile escaped him.

“My cousin and I taught her much of her swordwork,” Éomer was back to those happy moments, “She was always fast. Could dodge nearly every blow I tried. It’s no wonder she dodged the Nazgûl’s mace so aptly.”

“I will be right back,” Lothíriel’s eyes had lit up, and she quietly made her way to the band, then whispered to them and handed them a coin. They laughed and nodded, and she made her way back.

“What-” Éomer started  
“Just wait.” Lothíriel replied, a smug smile on her face.

Suddenly the band started playing “The Ballad of the Shieldmaiden,” composed by Merry and Pippin. An effusive grin came over Éomer, but the best part was that the rest of the pub had begun singing along. The entirety of this happy gathering were singing the praises to Éowyn Wraithbane, Shieldmaiden of Rohan. Éomer didn’t join the song, but he let himself enjoy the moment. Lothíriel was looking at him raptly, but when she saw his smile, she smiled back just as brightly.

In that moment of jubilation around him, in the harmonies of Gondorian and Rohirric voices, the world fell away and there was just Lothíriel. She was smiling, but he was seeing her in a light he had never seen a woman before. He saw her dressed in a shimmering white dress, walking to music, to wed him. He saw a flaxen-haired child running into her arms. His child. He saw her face, adorned in candlelight, laying across from him, in the bed they shared. He saw her galloping a horse full speed, daring him to catch her. He knew.

“Show me your favorite place in the city,” Éomer let the words escape him, but the crowd had started pressing on him, and he wanted to be alone with her.

Lothíriel looked back at him, and considered. He could see her beautiful eyes picturing those places she loved, and it drew a smile to his face. He hoped that she would share one with him.

“I fear to get to my favorite place would take the title of a King, or permission of the Steward,” Lothíriel looked shyly at Éomer.

“The first is trivial, as long as it matters not which Kingdom,” Éomer grinned.

“We shall see if that is enough.” Lothíriel’s eyes twinkled again, and Éomer was now seeing mischief in them as well.

Lothíriel stood up, and drank the remainder of her ale in one gulp. Éomer followed suit, nodding to Beregil that they would soon be on the move. Éomer followed Lothíriel out of the pub, then offered her his arm. She took it, and began taking long strides back up into the city. Up, up they went, through the fifth level, then the sixth. When they got to the gates of the seventh, Éomer nearly stopped to ask where on Middle Earth they were going that was any further up, then remembered wherever Lothíriel was taking them required the title of King. Éomer was not sure he made such a convincing King. Even dressed as a King, Éomer did not feel like a convincing King.

At the guardhouse, Lothíriel and Éomer stopped.

“Éomer Eadig, King of Rohan wishes to enter the Citadel with Beregil, guard of the Steward and Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth,” Lothíriel had used her most commanding voice, and Éomer was surprised to see assent on the guards’ faces.

“Dear Lothíriel, even dressed plain we would never forget your face!” the older guard exclaimed, “So this here is Éomer King? Were you two down in the lower levels celebrating the new Dawn?”

“We came incognito, but yes,” Lothíriel’s smile was sly, “May we enter? I can find my cousin if need be, since it would be a grievous insult to deny a King.”  
She was a master of words.

“The Steward had written that the royal families of Rohan and Dol Amroth were free to travel anywhere in the city, including into the Citadel, so I daresay I would be breaking orders not to follow. Is that really the King of Rohan?” the guard was still smiling at Lothíriel.

“Yes, I rode at the head of the éored to Gondor’s aid. Now please let us through and on our way,” Éomer let his commanding voice come forth. He was but one in that small group taken by surprise at its authority. The guard immediately bowed, and Lothíriel and Éomer went through.

“I will stay outside,” Beregil called to them, “There is no place better guarded. I shall be here when you would like to return.”

“Thank you for your companionship Beregil. I believe this will be the last stop for our evening, and Éomer King can escort me back to my door,” Lothíriel called back, “Go and be with your loved ones.”

Beregil smiled, bowed, and headed back into the lower levels of the city.

“I thought… you wanted,” Éomer started.

“I do not believe harm will come to me whilst I am in your company,” Lothíriel interrupted him, and answered, “Now come. I want to show you.”

Éomer offered his arm, but Lothíriel took his hand. Their swift pace continued until they were out on the terrace. Éomer looked around and saw the white tree, glowing in the moonlight. Lothíriel was leading him to the tree, which was being guarded by stoic-faced tower guards. Lothíriel then stopped.

“Uncle Denethor let very few people up here, but I would always come as a child. I remember sitting and just looking at the white tree. I would think about the coming of the King,” Lothíriel was mesmerized looking at it, “It always looked stark and dead during the day. But at night, it had this unnatural glow. It was beautiful, as if a sign from Elbereth not to give up hope.”

Éomer was not sure that the most luminous thing on that terrace was the white tree. Lothíriel then walked toward the edge walls. Éomer followed.

“Look up Éomer,” Lothíriel smiled, “There are so many stars, looking down on us from here. When the Shadow broke, the stars all seemed to get brighter. They are smiling down at us.”

“Beautiful,” Éomer was not talking about the heavens.

Lothíriel smiled inwardly.

“Éowyn and I used to ride out to a favorite field with a blanket, and lay under the stars. We had ignored our lore lessons in school, so we made up stories about the stars that we saw,” Éomer could feel the light in his heart thinking of this memory, “It was after our mother died but before Gríma.”

“Gríma?” Lothíriel turned and looked at Éomer.

“Oh, uh.” Éomer started to turn pink, “He poisoned my Uncle with words. We called him Wormtongue. And he wanted my sister.”

Lothíriel nodded, and Éomer hoped he needed to say no more. He was squirming. It was late now, and he was alone with a woman he now knew he wanted as his wife. As if she sensed his unease, Lothíriel looked up at him.

“I think our celebration should come to an end, Hemling,” her eyes twinkled, “The story of Gríma Wormtongue can be a story for another time.”

It was as if she knew. As if she sensed the memory of that time and that man, of Éomer’s shame at it. And would save him that pain on this most perfect of nights. They walked back down to the residences. When Éomer made it to Lothíriel’s door, he was sad to see her go, but he knew he must.

“Goodnight,” Éomer leaned down and kissed Lothíriel’s hand, his lips just brushing her skin. He let his lips linger.

“Goodnight  _ knight _ of Rohan,” Lothíriel smiled back at him, a red flush to her cheeks.

She leaned closer to him, then pressed her lips to his cheek, gently, lingering. Her eyelashes brushed his skin, and he shuddered. Then she was gone, and Éomer stood at her door. When he turned to make his way back to his apartment, he could not contain the smile that radiated through the whole of him. Whatever he had been expecting in meeting one he was matched for marriage, it was not this, it was not  _ her _ .

Lothíriel was beautiful, and Éomer finally let his mind wander to thoughts of their marriage bed, the one thought he had denied himself sitting with her at the pub. Yet, he liked her eyes most. He could see how thoughtful she was just by gazing into her eyes. Her eyes always seemed to reflect her happiness. Éomer was not sure if his company was the cause, or just that Lothíriel was that full of joy. He hoped both. He liked her happiness. He wanted to see the world through her eyes.

Before he knew it, Éomer was back at his apartment. He looked up at the stars one more time and sighed. He hoped Lothíriel would ride out with him and share a blanket under them. And they would make up stories of the stars, and perhaps she would teach him.

Then his ears pricked, and he could sense something amiss. Hushed voices in Éowyn’s apartment. Had Wormtongue come? No. The voices were soft and relaxed. One was Éowyn’s and one was… Faramir’s. Éomer could feel the heat coming to his face. They had promised. He pulled out his key, but found Éowyn’s door was open. Éomer was about to pound on the bedroom door, but something stopped him.

Éomer saw a small note on the sitting room table, and he knew it was for him.

> Brother,
> 
> I have had an extremely hard day. Faramir is here because I need him. You can trust us to keep our promise.
> 
> Love,   
>  Éowyn

Éomer stopped, then turned around to go to his own apartment. Talking to Éowyn could wait until tomorrow, and he trusted them. If his time with Lothíriel taught him anything, it was that in the company of the right person, carnal thoughts give way to things that are deeper.


	29. Éowyn 7

Éowyn stared out her window at the window of the white house. Her candle was lit, and now she just had to wait. She knew he would come. But the minutes of waiting felt endless. The pit in her stomach from her time with Aragorn had finally abated, but his guilt still haunted her.  _ Of course _ the second side effect of drawing someone from the shadow was an intense connection to their emotions. It was like a cosmic joke. The man who nearly drove her into the shadow in the first place now shared a connection with her mind.

But Éowyn needed to be honest. It was not just Aragorn’s scorn that set her path. It was every little (or big) humiliation up until that moment too. Not just the moments of Gríma’s hunt, but also other moments. The moment her uncle forgot to name her leader in his stead, despite her having earned the love of their people. The moments she was alone, trying to find a way to fly while protecting Théoden, and finding that the only way to protect him was to endure Gríma. Those moments as much as Aragorn set her on her path.

And now, here she was. She won the acclaim she had always craved, defeating a foe beyond all those who would have her stay at home. She’d found the deep and enduring love of a man who craved her company as much as her touch (and she his). She had found friends, and watched Aragorn come to her to beg her forgiveness. It was time to forgive, and it was time to let go. She had freed herself from her cage, and had a real chance to find happiness and meaning. It was time to take it.

Éowyn sighed, she wanted Faramir. As if hearing her silent pleas, a faint light appeared in his window. Then the unmistakable point of candlelight. Éowyn knew he had seen her window, so she blew out her candle. She grabbed her robe from her closet, pressed her feet into her slippers, and headed toward the door. When she opened it, Faramir was there, out of breath. Éowyn could not contain her smile. He not only came to her, he’d clearly  _ sprinted _ .

“Tell me your sorrows min elskede,” Faramir stepped over the threshold, and they closed the door behind them.

Éowyn walked deliberately to Faramir, so close that they were practically touching. She closed her eyes and took in his smell, leather and soap. She leaned and let her body press against his, and she felt Faramir’s arms come around her. She did not think there was a place in the world she would feel safer than right there in those arms. Faramir kissed her brow. No words were needed, not in that moment. She listened to the steady beat of Faramir’s heart, and listened to the sound of his breathing. The steady rhythm of him, the softness of his touch counterbalanced with the hardness of his muscle created in Éowyn a sense of complete calm.  She breathed him in and felt the unease and angst from the revelation of that day and her confrontation with Aragorn melt away from her. Suddenly she was exhausted. She wanted to lay down, but she did not want that moment, enveloped in Faramir’s arms, to end. Éowyn knew what she wanted, and what she would be asking.

“I needs must ask you for something min elskede,” Éowyn started, drawing her head up to face his loving gaze.

“Anything,” Faramir replied.

“Will you come… sleep with me?” the words were out of Éowyn’s mouth. She was not sure what his answer would be.

“Min elskede…” his body tensed, but he did not let her go.

“No. I mean. I meant sleep.” Éowyn tried to explain, his arms were her soothing lullaby. She somehow knew she would get uninterrupted sleep, so long as he was there.

Faramir looked at her, and she could see that he was considering what to do. Finally Faramir seemed to have come to a decision.

“I will not sleep in your bed,” Faramir’s word was firm, but Éowyn could sense there was more, “But neither of us have been getting proper rest. I will stay with you, but I will not sleep.”

“I should hope that this stance will change the moment we are wed,” Éowyn retorted, she was jesting, but she was also quite serious.

Faramir laughed lightly, “Min elskede, sharing our bed is what I look most forward to.”  
He then leaned in and kissed Éowyn between the eyes.

Faramir then continued, “I have spent enough nights on watch duty in Ithilien. I will stay until the earliest twilight, if only to see you sleep soundly.”

“Why the worry?” Éowyn was genuinely curious. If it was not about sharing a bed, what was it?

“I do not want to be taken unawares,” Faramir had started stroking Éowyn’s hair, “By your angry brother  _ or _ by the toxic lips of courtiers. I will not have you be a target for them, nor do I want to be a target for Éomer’s sword. the sharp one.”

Éowyn laughed, “well. Meet me then in my room. I need to do one thing before I settle.”

She kissed her raven haired Steward, who let go then apprehensively took steps toward her bedroom. Éowyn then grabbed a small piece of parchment and jotted a note to Éomer on it. She would not be surprised if he came charging in, especially if they were still talking, and wanted to avoid the confrontation. She knew the words to use, and expected that they would speak more of it in the morning.  _ He is still out _ , Éowyn mused, then it dawned on her,  _ with Lothíriel _ .

A knowing grin radiated from Éowyn’s face as she walked into her bedroom. Faramir was there on her bed, fidgeting with his hands, and looking extremely uncomfortable. Éowyn rolled her eyes at him.

“Faramir, not only have you watched me sleep before, you’ve also been on my bed,” Éowyn carried amusement in her voice. But of course she knew this was different than the times in the garden of the House of Healing, or with Merry.

Faramir did not reply, clearly he had read her thoughts. But then Éowyn could see the light in his eye, and he opened his arm to accept her into him. He was nervous, but he was also exhilarated. Éowyn paused. Was she really ready? Was her instinct to sleep with his arms around her really the right one? But then Éowyn thought about the years ahead of them in their lives, and knew that she wanted that life to start now, taking the small pleasures they could, before their vows were said and all wondrous things were open to them. Éowyn kicked off her shoes, shrugged off her robe, and crawled next to Faramir, filling the welcoming gap he had formed between his body and his arm. She fit, and it felt right, as if that crevice of Faramir had been waiting an eternity only for her.

“My brother is out with your cousin,” Éowyn whispered in Faramir’s ear, “I almost wish I could sit in his apartment judgmentally as he did to me last night. But I fear I find where I currently am far too enjoyable.”

“Then would it be you providing lumps to Lothíriel in sparring?” Faramir chuckled, “What exactly was it that you said to him?”

“I told him how it felt to be in love,” Éowyn laid her head onto Faramir’s chest, “He has been scared ever since the night in the stables that all experiences women have with love and men are like that.”

Éowyn could hear Faramir’s heartbeat quicken at her words. She took his hand and caressed it with her fingers. It was not immediate, but Faramir’s heartbeat slowed. Éowyn then turned her eyes to Faramir’s, she wanted him to see every thought as she spoke.

“There aren’t similarities. He wanted to take me by force. And I would have died rather than let him,” Éowyn pierced Faramir with her gaze, “To you, I give my love freely. I  _ want _ to be near you. I  _ want  _ to share my sorrows and my joys with you. I  _ want _ to listen to your stories. I  _ want _ to feel your touch on my skin, and I  _ want _ to touch you. I think upon you and on us and on our lives, and it brings me this wellspring of happiness. I am safe with you, sleeping or awake. I can let down my shield. I know I am safe.”

Éowyn’s words seemed more than Faramir could take, and he pulled her in for a kiss. Tender but reaching, and they let the joy of it linger, tasting one another’s mouths and lips. Éowyn loved the way it felt when he kissed her, as if he projected all of himself into his lips.

“I love you min elskede,” Faramir whispered between breaths and kisses, “Every word you said is true of me too, and the joy you bring to my heart saying them overflows. You could be a common maid and still I would take you to wife. In the morning I smile thinking upon the first time I will see you. What I will say that can bring you a smile. What I can do to ease your pain. I am besotted.”

“Well it appears it is a good thing you are marrying me,” Éowyn smiled at him, “For you are hopeless”

“Entirely,” Faramir smiled into Éowyn’s mouth, and placed another kiss on her lips.

Éowyn was torn. She wanted to continue this bliss, to let Faramir’s kisses and touch stoke the fire that was burning inside her, but she also knew that she needed sleep, and she wanted to see if his calm would lull her into the fitless slumber she so hoped for. Faramir seemed to read her thoughts.

“Close your eyes min elskede, and I will tell you stories of Dol Amroth and Lothíriel,” Faramir pressed one final kiss onto Éowyn’s forehead, “Since you’ve already heard the story of my close call with the Kracken, let me tell you of Lothíriel and the dagger.”

“Is that where one of your many scars came from?” Éowyn whispered.

“Miraculously no, though Boromir bore at least one friendly scar from his cousins,” Faramir replied, letting his head rest on Éowyn’s, “Lothíriel’s hair was the victim. She was tired of being treated like a girl, so she cut off her hair in protest.”

Éowyn snorted. She had sometimes dreamed of cutting off her hair, but had never gone through with it.

“I will need to teach Lothíriel to braid her hair after the elven fashion,” Éowyn mused, and she and Faramir laughed.

“We were not including her in our games. Her protest taught us a lesson: to ignore her for being a girl caused her to believe she was only a person if she were a boy. Imrahil was furious. We never left her out again.”

“Did she spar?” Éowyn asked

“No, only in jest,” Faramir replied, “She liked to feign injury to get the upper hand on Boromir or I. We always fell for it, though her brothers did not.”

Éowyn liked Lothíriel.

“...My poor brother,” she laughed

They heard someone enter the apartment at that moment. Faramir tensed, but Éowyn gently put her hand on his chest. As long as he saw the note, she knew he would leave them be.

“You are absolutely sure he is not about to murder me?” Faramir was smiling, but Éowyn could feel his tension, “My sword is too far away should he decide to charge.”

“He fears me far more than he fears you min elskede,” Éowyn whispered, “And running into my bedroom to face me, knowing I am not in danger and have given him my word? His trust in me and his love will stay his most protective instincts. Trust me.”

“I do min elskede, and slowly, I am growing to trust him as well,” Faramir whispered back.

As if Éowyn’s words were prophetic, she heard Éomer sigh, then head back out the door. Faramir exhaled below her, but she just smiled. She was blessed to have Éomer as her brother.

“Now min elskede, close your eyes and sleep. I will be here until the first twilight,” Faramir pressed one last kiss upon Éowyn’s brow, and she gave in.

Faramir spoke softly to her, regaling tales of the early days. Of the Valar and Morgoth and the Silmarils. Of valor and love. And his words were a lullaby, gently bringing her to the slumber she had longed for since she first heard those muffled footsteps outside her door.

When Éowyn awoke, she found that she was alone, and dawn had broken. A small note lay next to her.

> Min elskede,
> 
> The first twilight has now come through your window, and I must leave you. Your peace in sleep brought joy to my heart. I will always come if you call. Breakfast will be waiting for you (and your brother…) at the Steward’s House.
> 
> Love,  
> Faramir

Éowyn smiled and stretched. She felt more renewed than she had in a long time. It felt like the morning of a different person’s life, a happier person’s life, but it was her’s. And so was Faramir.


	30. Aragorn 6

It took Aragorn a long time to clear his head after the evening. Plans to go back to his tent and catch some sleep evaporated under the pressing emotions and memories of Merry, Faramir, and Éowyn. Their intermingling feelings no longer felt like burdens pressing on his chest. Instead they felt as if some new door in his own heart had been opened. Fighting their emotions had been like fighting the tide, it was exhausting and futile. When he finally surrendered to the tide, he found that it did not carry him away, as he had feared. Instead, somehow, it felt familiar.

_ You will never have secrets from those three again _ . Aragorn thought he would be afraid of that truth, but he was not. All three had unwillingly shown him everything that brought them pain. And now all those doors Aragorn had closed around himself were being forced open. He only ever willingly shared his pain and his fear with his mother (before she died) and Arwen, and so much of his pain in that moment was the uncertainty of his future with the woman who had captured his heart. And now, the universe had both gifted him and condemned him to have three others who could sense his vulnerabilities. He needed to trust them. As the universe had demanded they trust him.

Aragorn wandered aimlessly, listening to the joy of the city around him. As he passed a particular biergarten, he paused, hearing a raucous rendition of the Ballad of the Shieldmaiden. It sounded as if the entire tavern were drunk, as they had begun making up new lyrics to the song. He wondered how many times the band had played it. Aragorn almost went through the door, but he found he couldn’t. He needed to be alone. Aragorn ducked into his favorite garden, and looked up at the stars. There it was, the Evenstar. Brightest and steadiest in the sky. He hoped this was a sign that Arwen would come.

“Her star rises high in the sky,” the words were in Sindarin, “You did not return to your tent.”

“I’m fine Legolas,” Aragorn turned to his friend, “I was left with a lot to ponder today.”

Legolas nodded and was about to leave the garden then added, “You have done it. You’ve fulfilled your destiny. You should be happier about it.” Then he was gone.

Aragorn was alone again, listening to the trickling of the water in the fountain. Legolas did not know the whole of Aragorn’s despair, but he had fingered one of its roots. A life of a wanderer. Nameless in the wilderness, and only known as who he was to a select and secretive few. It was now gone. The anonymity. Everyone would know his name, his face. King Elessar. The return of hope to Middle Earth.  _ Estel indeed _ . And the number of people he trusted he could count on two hands. His Dúnedain had to remain in the north, and his seat would be Minas Tirith. Elrond and Gandalf would both leave for the west, and he did not yet know the decisions of Legolas and Gimli, but he doubted that they would stay there with him. Arwen would be his sole confidant, and she might not come.

He  _ needed _ Faramir, and he needed Éowyn. Aragorn had not realized how deep his need was until he actually asked Faramir to stay on as Steward. It had been idea that had lingered on the edges of his thoughts, but his asking made it real. He did not want to betray how crestfallen he was that the younger man did not immediately say yes. But he also understood. The Steward was Denethor. A man who neglected and resented his second son, and then tried to kill him. Faramir’s darkest memories were so often of his father’s cruelty. It was what kept him close to the shadows, and why Aragorn had to will him back. Sitting the seat of the Steward, Faramir feared he would become his father. Aragorn’s mission would now have to be convincing Faramir that he had already shown his quality to far exceed that of his father.

In quieter moments, Aragorn compared the sons of Denethor. Boromir was brash and proud, but also desperate to save his people from Sauron. Faramir had the same skill and love of his people, but he also had restraint and wisdom. One was a Steward for times of war, the other for times of peace. Faramir’s skills were most impressive in times of peace, despite his proven prowess on the battlefield. Aragorn then let his mind wander to Éowyn. He wanted to know her nearly as much as he wanted to know Faramir. Éowyn’s memories had nearly broken him, and yet, they had not succeeding in breaking  _ her _ . She was stronger in her misery than most men were in their happiness. Aragorn had only seen her worst memories. He had considered her a passive victim, but her staying Éomer’s hand to grant Gríma mercy was not the act of a passive victim, it spoke to something deeper, something he needed to understand. It dawned on him nearly the moment he put his mind to the task.  _ Éowyn did not act to kill Wormtongue not because she could not, but because she understood the consequences. _

Aragorn closed his eyes to picture Edoras before Gandalf’s intervention. Gríma has fed Théoden King poison of paranoia and despair while Saruman’s hordes attacked the outlying villages. Through Gríma, Éomer and Théodred were being sent on ever more dangerous sorties until Saruman finally openly declared that killing the heirs of Théoden was a priority. But Saruman did not openly attack Edoras. Because he had Gríma on the inside. Théoden and Edoras were outwardly safe so long as Gríma was there. Edoras and Théoden would immediately have been attacked if Gríma was killed.

What came next? After the deaths of Éomer and Théodred, Gríma would kill Théoden and claim the throne through Éowyn’s hand. That was the end of the game. But Gríma was greedy, or he underestimated Éowyn, likely both. Éowyn saw how those events would unfold, and knew that her choice was to bide her time, keeping Théoden as whole as she could. The second that it was only Théoden, Éowyn would have acted, killing Gríma and putting herself on the line.

As Aragorn finished his thought, his stomach turned to ice. Éowyn was waiting for the best moment to die in those desperate weeks after Théodred had fallen. Her despair. Her desperation. A tactician watching the walls close in and trying to find the way out that saved her uncle and her people.

Éowyn’s memories flashed through Aragorn’s mind. Those moments of despair. She waited. She knew the moment she made the choice to slay Wormtongue, Isengard’s dam would break. When Gandalf cured Théoden, it was no more than days before Saruman sent a host. Éowyn understood that.  _ She is as much a Steward as Faramir _ , Aragorn realized. Éomer knew that, and deferred to her. Faramir realized that and had invited her to council. How had he not recognized it too?

Shame started to surge in Aragorn’s gut once more. So little of her had he seen. But that would be no more. His vow to see her as a person was insufficient. He needed a new vow, to see her as extraordinary. Aragorn looked up into the sky, to the Evenstar.

_ I will not underestimate her again _ , he put his hand to his heart and swore upon that star. And he would stop letting his shame dictate his actions. He would start acting like the King. He would walk openly through his city, speaking to his subjects and readying for coronation. He would spend time in the House of Healing, using his hands to heal. And he would not stop pursuing the confidences of Éowyn and Faramir.

 

Finally, enough of the pining over Arwen. He would send her a letter, declaring his heart and his love, and asking if she would come. Being around Éowyn and Faramir, and experiencing their love had made it clear how oppressive the hole in his own heart was. Knowing would be enough for now. Seventy years and a few months… he could wait. Aragorn reached into his satchel and pulled out a small piece of parchment, plus a quill and ink. The road to Isengard had now been cleared thanks to the Ents and the Rohirrim. Aragorn estimated it would be a month there and back, with the swiftest of riders, assuming that the roads around the Misty Mountains remained open. Aragorn sighed. Even if all things were aligned for him, an answer to his letter would not arrive to him before his coronation. He would just have to wait.

Aragorn looked back up at the Evenstar, and closed his eyes. She had made his banner, and the sadness in Elrohir and Elladan’s eyes meant it was likely that she had made her choice. But the choice to forsake her family, her people, for  _ him  _ still seemed so immense that he could not truly bring himself to believe that she had made it. Perhaps it was finally time to look into his palantír, now free of the oppression of Sauron.

Aragorn left the garden and walked swiftly through the levels of the city. When he walked through the gates, he stalled for just one moment. He looked up to the sky once more, and saw that the Evenstar was shining more brightly.  _ Yes _ , Aragorn thought,  _ it is time. _ There was something else he wanted to see too. The location of a specific person. Aragorn closed his tent behind him, then pulled his palantír from its hiding place. It responded immediately to his touch, and he could feel his will mingle with it.

With all his might, Aragorn thought  _ Arwen Undomiel _ . His mind was now with the stone. He saw a garden. Rivendell. He saw her, she was beautiful. She was looking to the south, as if she could feel his mind calling out to her. Her room was bare, as if she had packed everything for a journey. But he knew. She was coming to him. Her mind was ever thinking to the south and to the east, to  _ him _ . She would not go west. She would come. Aragorn’s heart filled with joy and hope in that moment. He would bathe in the light of his beloved Evenstar for the rest of his life.

But Aragorn was not done. His second task was less pleasant.  _ Gríma Wormtongue _ , Aragorn thought again. His mind had a harder time picking up the wretched man’s presence, but finally he could feel him. Two they were, still in Isengard. Still guarded by Ents. Gríma under the foot of his master.  _ Éowyn is safe _ , Aragorn thought,  _ and Faramir’s guard can be lessened _ . He would tell them first thing in the morning, after the council over the Book of the Dead.

Aragorn was glad that he decided to look. His fear that Éowyn’s sorrows would haunt him had diminished. Her own will played a significant part in that, as did her exoneration for his invasion. He had never given much thought to what came next after the Shadow was defeated. He would become King, then… then what? The “what” had started to materialize in his mind. He would set this world on the path toward hope. He would listen to his people’s words, but most of all, he would lean on those he trusted, those whose wisdom would bring about this path to peace. The people who quietly ruled their realms unremarked, who kept them stable through the uncertainty.

Yes, Faramir needed to be in Ithilien. His love and knowledge of that place would accelerate its healing, ultimately bringing forth the possibility of opening Mordor’s doors to peace as well. Aragorn wondered… how long had the House of Húrin abandoned its seat to serve its King then rule Gondor’s people? Emyn Arnen was but a half day’s ride from Minas Tirith, and easily visible from nearly all levels of the city.  _ It is time to return to you what is yours Faramir _ , Aragorn thought, and he knew exactly how he planned to do it. In two days time, he would lay out the offer. He hoped that Faramir would accept. In his contemplation, Aragorn heard footsteps outside of his tent. His hand was already on his dagger.

“You certainly have not lost your edge,” kind eyes and the white glow of Gandalf entered his tent.

“No, and I hope I never lose my edge,” Aragorn thought amusedly of Faramir and his bath, he had to respect the Steward’s skill.

“What brought you to look into the palantír?” Gandalf inquired.

“Two needs. One for me, and one for… others,” Aragorn replied. He did not want to speak fully of his need to see Arwen.

Gandalf nodded, “I hope both visions gave you peace.”

“Both did,” Aragorn replied, he was not sure why Gandalf lingered, “Is there more Mithrandir that I need to know about this stone?”

“No, that is your’s. It belongs to you, and you can do with it as you please. Just beware of it too, as palantírs have been known to become more dangerous the farther your gaze takes you,” Gandalf replied.

Aragorn smiled, “I kept my eyes in the present.”

Gandalf’s eyes twinkled, and Aragorn thought that there may be too much understanding in those eyes.

“The Evenstar was quite bright tonight,” Gandalf said, confirming Aragorn’s suspicion, “I daresay I have not seen it shine with this light in a very long time. Possibly ever.”

A brief quiet passed between them. Aragorn wondered if Gandalf would inquire after his second vision, but he did not.

“Try to sleep,” Gandalf said, “For tonight should be the last night you sleep outside. Tomorrow you will walk into your city, and take your rightful place there.”

With those final words, Gandalf was gone. So it was. Aragorn would pack up tomorrow and ask Faramir for quarters in the city. His days as Ranger were over, and his days as King had begun.


	31. Éowyn 8

Faramir’s scent lingered on her pillow, and she breathed in its last remnants. He’d stayed up all night so she could find her slumber. She wanted to call upon him every night to help her sleep, but that was unsustainable. Yet, she wondered if he would get sleep on his own. Perhaps she would stay awake tonight to give Faramir his chance at slumber.  _ He will never sleep at night, even with me there _ , Éowyn frowned. But perhaps…

She knew what she was going to do.

Éowyn dressed quickly, then braided her hair as an elven warrior. Faramir’s comment about Lothíriel cutting off her hair to demand to be taken seriously had been her inspiration. Council over the Book of the Dead, she knew that she needed to make it clear why she was there. Éomer never would argue, but she wanted to make sure that neither would Aragorn. Her own uncle was in that book. Gamling was in that book. Éowyn wanted to be there to see what the combined resources of Rohan and Gondor could do for her fallen warriors.

Éowyn looked one more time around her apartment, then opened her door. As if he had been waiting for her, Éowyn heard Éomer’s door open.

“Sister!” he was out the door, surprising both herself and a waiting Beregil.

“Good morning brother,” Éowyn smiled placidly at Éomer, and noted that although he carried a smile, a small vein in Éomer’s forehead was bulging, “Would you care to join me for breakfast? Faramir has invited us both.”

“First dear sister, a  _ word _ ,” Éomer was trying so hard to be calm, and Éowyn knew that her amused look was not helping anything.

“Of course, join me in my apartment?” Éowyn would not let herself laugh. Éomer was right to be concerned. It was endearing.

Éomer nodded, and they headed back into her apartment. As soon as the door shut, Éomer closed the distance.

“What the devil were you up to last night?” Éomer rasped.

“I would ask you the same thing,” Éowyn could tell her smile was unraveling her brother, as his face was rapidly reddening.

“I- uh- I  _ saw her to her door and no further _ ,” Éomer was beet red.

“Since  _ he _ haunted my bedroom door, I have gotten perhaps two nights of sleep uninterrupted by fits. One of those was last night. He would not fall asleep in my bed, so he sat guard over me while I slept. And I slept the night without nightmares,” Éowyn smiled inwardly, letting her love for Faramir wash over her.

“He… stayed awake all night?” Éomer’s face was still red, but Éowyn could see his indignation breaking.

“Yes,” Éowyn replied.

Éomer sighed, “That all men would have as much honor as your fiancé.”  
Éowyn laughed heartily.

“I still will have my say when we spar,” Éomer retorted.

“I know brother. Perhaps I should also spar with Lothíriel then?” Éowyn’s eyes twinkled.

Éomer’s color did not improve with her mention of the Dol Amroth princess. Indeed, it became darker. But Éowyn also saw the inward smile that Éomer was desperately trying to hide.

“Let us walk to the Steward’s and break our fast. And please tell me about your evening,” Éowyn threaded her arm through Éomer’s, and started leading him to the door. Éomer did not resist.

“Tell me about her,” Éowyn whispered as they walked out the door.

“She’s… she’s…” Éomer was red, “She was not what I expected.”

“Is that so?” Éowyn let her voice sound light. She wanted to coax Éomer to speak truly.

“I- I- could see us. Our future,” Éomer’s words were thoughtful, shy, “Our children. Galloping through the fields with her.”

Éowyn tried to recover from the stun Éomer’s words had caused, but she did not recover quickly enough. Éomer noticed, and seemed more sheepish than he had even previously, “She… showed me her favorite place in the city.”

Éowyn cleared her throat, “where did she take you?”

“To the white tree,” Éomer replied, “She only likes that place at night, because the tree reflects the stars. It gives her hope.”

Éowyn pulled her smitten brother closer to her. She could feel his hope when he said the word. So Faramir’s instinct had been correct.

“...She kissed me…” Éomer’s red color returned, “Well, on the cheek. What do you think that means?”

“What do you think it means?” Éowyn asked him. She felt her smile get bigger.

“I… she… Do you think..?” Éomer was having trouble forming words, and turned to look desperately at Éowyn.

“I think it means what you think it means,” Éowyn looked into his eyes, and saw their unmistakable twinkle, “I think she felt for you what you felt for her yesterday.”

Éomer’s smile was as bright as she’d ever seen it. It was the smile of the boy she remembered, before he was forced to become a man so much earlier than he should have. Éowyn liked seeing the wonder return to his eyes, and hoped that Lothíriel would bring that out of him for the rest of his life. Éomer knew he would marry her, Éowyn hoped that Lothíriel had felt it too.  _ She kissed him _ , thought Éowyn,  _ I daresay I will have a new sister. _ As they arrived at Faramir’s door, Éomer stiffened again.

“Remember brother, the man on the other side of that door stayed awake all night so your beloved sister could sleep soundly,” Éowyn cooed in his ear, “And it seems you are starting to understand the sort of love that would compel one to do so.”

Éomer reddened again, but his expression softened. The door opened, and Faramir answered. He’d shaved, and looked impeccable, but Éowyn saw the hollows under his eyes. Yes, she would implement her plan that very afternoon.

“Your hair,” Faramir looked at Éowyn’s warrior braid, causing Éomer to finally take notice too.

“Who do you intend to intimidate sister?” Éomer was amused.

“Lothíriel gave me the idea,” Éowyn smiled conspiratorially at Faramir, “Perhaps sometimes we must remind friends and allies as much as enemies to look at our person, and not our sex.”

Faramir snickered, and Éomer looked intensely at Éowyn.

“Please tell me what Lothíriel did to inspire such a thing,” Éomer pleaded.

“She cut off her hair, in protest of being treated like a girl,” Faramir replied, bright smile upon his face. Éomer’s blush returned.

“Seems Lothíriel and I have more in common than we supposed brother,” Éowyn was enjoying herself far too much.

“Well… yeah,” Éomer was beet red again, “If she wants to braid her hair, or cut it off. She can. So can you.”

Éowyn turned to Éomer and pulled him in for a hug, “All should be so lucky as to have a brother like you.”  
Éowyn wondered if Éomer could feel her will her love into him. Éomer pulled her in closer.

“Okay, enough for now. I am ready to break my fast with two of the men in this world I love most,” Éowyn broke apart from Éomer, and took Faramir’s hand in her’s.

“In the garden,” Faramir smiled.

“Try to get much of your work finished in the morning min elskede. I will call on you this afternoon.” Éowyn was firm.

Faramir looked at Éowyn, puzzled. Éowyn kept her face serene. Éomer was staring at both of them as well, and Éowyn did not want their breakfast interrupted by her brother’s protectiveness. Faramir seemed to understand, and simply nodded.

“Éomer, I also want to hear more about your evening with Lothíriel,” Éowyn was pushing her luck, but she truly wanted to know more about the woman her brother was so clearly falling for.

“Uh… she’s funny,” Éomer was red, but he was smiling. So was Faramir.

Éomer told them that he and Lothíriel went secretly into the city, dressed as commoners of Rohan and Gondor, and shared ale at a pub. Talking about their dreams and their families. Lothíriel had brought coin to make sure they could pay and go unnoticed, and had bribed the band to play Ballad of the Shieldmaiden. Éowyn could feel Éomer’s comfort, his love. She found Faramir’s hand under the table and squeezed it. Her brother had found what she had found. In the same remarkable family. When Éomer got to Lothíriel leading him to the white tree, they could see the stars in his eyes.

“She always had hope that many in her family did not always share,” Faramir was still holding Éowyn’s hand, and she could feel warmth and light radiating from him, “I’m very happy for you brother.

“Well, it’s not. It’s nothing… yet.” Éomer stuttered, “Just … a nice evening. is all.”  
Éomer was fooling no one.

The breakfast came to an end, and Faramir excused himself to find the ledger and books needed for the council. Éowyn and Éomer kept their seats at the table.

“What are you doing this afternoon,” Éomer asked in Rohirric.

“Returning Faramir’s favor. I will bring my work to this garden and demand he sleep.” Éowyn replied. There was no use in hiding the truth, as a hidden truth would only encourage Éomer’s imagination.

“Just you..?”

“Brother, it will be middle of the day with his staff hurrying about. Speaking of which…” Éowyn got up, leaving Éomer alone in the garden to find Faramir’s butler. She whispered instructions that when she called on Faramir in the afternoon,  _ no one _ was to disturb his slumber. The butler nodded, clearly understanding.  _ So it is not just me who knows the fair Steward does not get sleep _ , Éowyn thought.

Éomer’s arms were crossed and his lips were pursed. She sat down, this time next to him.

“Éomer, where is this surge in protectionism coming from?” Éowyn stared at him, still speaking in Rohirric.

“I- I trust you sister, and I even trust him,” Éomer replied, “It’s just. I’m not used to… you. Being happy. Seeking out these types of things. I could not protect your reputation when that  _ thing _ hunted you, and… I fear… what happens now if…”

Éowyn smiled, as it had not dawned on her that his surge of protectiveness was not about mistrust, but instead his own feelings of powerlessness when no one would listen to him speak of what really happened in the stables, including the poisoned Théoden. Éowyn hugged him tightly.

“It is different brother. Everything is different,” Éowyn whispered, leaning her forehead to his, “Our traumas are best healed together, as they are kindred. The more time we are together, the more whole we become. Someday that will no longer be necessary, but for now, we seem to need each other.”

Éomer nodded, and a tear had formed in his eye, “I will never forgive myself for not protecting you.”

Éowyn snorted, “I will repeat it until it does not need repeating brother. You  _ did  _ protect me. You gave me the skills to be my own protection. I would die before someone could take me by force, and more likely, I would kill them in the process. And without my despair, without that cage, I would not be here. I would not have been able to protect  _ you _ from the Nazgûl. I would not have found love.”

Éomer looked at Éowyn, and she saw his dawning realization. She pressed, “Do you not think I wanted as desperately to protect you as you me?”

Éomer looked into Éowyn’s eyes, “And you did. You protected me. You protected our uncle from humiliation. You protected our people.”

“Don’t forget that as you lead brother. Women want to protect their loved ones just as much as men do,” Éowyn said it with resolve, and hoped she was right. She knew she was, at least, for her.

Faramir had returned, his hands piled with books. The black ledger was the most massive in his arms.

“So much death,” the words were out of Éowyn’s mouth before she could contain them. Éomer nodded.

“And we will honor every one of their memories, and support all they left behind,” the voice was deep. Imrahil’s.

Éomer darted out of his seat, standing at attention. Both Éowyn and Imrahil broke out in laughter. Imrahil headed to the King and clapped him on the back, then pulled him in for a hug.

“I daresay that now, when we are not obligated by formal occasions, forever and always will you be friend,” Imrahil’s eyes twinkled, and Éowyn could hear emotion in the Prince’s voice.

_ He must know too _ , she thought, and smiled. Imrahil had then turned, and was studying Éowyn’s hair.

“I  _ wondered _ who had braided my nephew’s hair in such a fashion,” Imrahil marveled, “Now I know who has the skill. It looks… aweing Éowyn.”

“As was my intention Prince,” Éowyn grinned, “Inspiration came from your own daughter.”

Imrahil looked puzzled, but as Faramir laughed, it dawned on him.

“Ah yes. Lothíriel’s dagger,” Imrahil’s voice was grave, but his eyes twinkled ever the brighter, “If I remember correctly, severe punishments were doled out for that one. To all. Save for Lothíriel.”

“And we never disregarded her again,” Faramir jumped in.

Imrahil had joined the laughter.

“Your hair looks refreshing, and I fear you may have some requests come your way for coronation. I believe even under a circlet, we would look lordly,” Imrahil chuckled.

“I will consider it,” Éowyn winked, then she turned her attention back to the black ledgers, “But for now, it looks like there are more pressing things than celebrating a King…”

Suddenly Éowyn felt a lurch in her gut. She looked up. Aragorn stood in the door. His timing was remarkable.

“Éowyn is absolutely right,” Aragorn’s tone was somber, “The cost of our victory was great, and the fallen deserve far more celebration than me.”

Éowyn tried closing herself off to Aragorn’s emotions. But they had changed, even since last night’s confrontation. The guilt, though still present, had subsided immensely, and was replaced with inimitable optimism, but also sadness.

“I think it is time to begin,” Faramir sighed, and sat down, then opened the black ledger, “I counted 3,000 men of Gondor, 300 of Dol Amroth and 3,000 of Rohan amongst the dead. The House of Healing is currently treating some 200, and I believe an additional 1,500 have sustained injuries.”

_ Gamling and my uncle _ , Éowyn thought, and she could feel her grief, and Aragorn’s. This grief though, it was not the black grief that drew her into the shadow mists. It was a grief borne of love, rather than of despair and desperation. It was the clean grief of crying with Faramir in his study. Éowyn found Éomer’s hand under the table, and took it. She could feel him trembling.

“Are the names separated based on their homelands nephew?” Imrahil was the first to speak.

“No. But those who recorded their names were careful to mark their banners,” Faramir replied, and Éowyn could hear the trembling in his voice. She wanted to go to him. But she couldn’t, not with Éomer’s hand in hers. Suddenly, she fixed her eyes on Aragorn’s.

_ Give him the comfort I currently cannot, _ she doubted he could understand her words, but her gaze had caught his attention, and she could feel his confusion in her gut. She shot a glance to Faramir, then fixed her eyes on his once more, and she knew he had understood what she needed him to do. An overpowering sense of comfort came over her, and she knew it was Aragorn’s will. Faramir paused, and looked at both of them. She suspected Faramir knew. But she would do anything it took to protect him from his fire dreams. A wrinkle had appeared at the corner of Aragorn’s eye, and she recognized that one of the barriers that had stood between them had broken. Her hand remained in Éomer’s.

“I should like the lands of the soldiers to be inherited by their widows and eldest born,” Éowyn spoke up, commanding the attention of the council, “So many men have died, there will now be families that are simply without, and I would not see schemers come and take advantage of a widow or daughter’s tears.”

All looked at her, but Éowyn did not bow her head. Haunted looks appeared on Éomer, Aragorn, and Faramir’s faces, and she knew they understood.  _ Gríma _ .

“Yes,” Aragorn spoke first, and Éowyn sensed…  _ admiration _ , “I should not want the grieving to suffer more than they already have. And for soldiers who were promised lands for service, so we shall deliver it to their families.”

“Seconded,” Éomer spoke clearly, and squeezed Éowyn’s hand. Éowyn smiled.

“You will forever amaze me Éowyn,” it was Imrahil, “I daresay I had not thought about that. And yet, now that it is said, I see no other way.”

Éowyn chanced a glance at Faramir, who was beaming at her. She knew he wanted to kiss her. She was glad the table separated them, because she would have done it.

The hours that ensued were full of discussions of monetary compensations, what each soldier’s family would get in terms of land and stock, as well as honors. It became clear quickly the relative levels of support between the two allied nations were not equal. But then as before, Gondor’s King and Steward spoke as one.

“We will pool all compensation and resources. All of it. Soldiers of both great nations will benefit from the bounty of the new age. They all delivered us, and so we shall deliver them,” Faramir looked at Éomer, silently pleading with him to take what was offered.

“We can take care of our own,” said Éomer. There it was, his pride. Éowyn rolled her eyes. She was about to retort but something stilled her voice.

“I know that to be the truth Éomer King, and yet, Gondor could not. Gondor needed Rohan or they would have fallen. Your men paid with their lives for our bounty. And so our bounty is as much their bounty as it is our own soldiers’,” Faramir spoke gently.  _ Perfectly _ .

Éomer stilled, and sighed. Éowyn whispered in his ear in Rohirric, “Our people suffered so much loss in fighting the enemy in Gondor. Let our people know how deep Gondor’s thanks runs. This will not be seen as charity, but instead as the ultimate thank you for our deeds. We shared in their losses, and so we share in their thanks.”

Éomer shook his head, “What will I do without my sister to stay my pride?”

“You will then have another who I am sure will do the same,” Éowyn grinned and Éomer blushed. When Éowyn looked around the council, Imrahil seemed to be the only one not following the conversation.

“So, at least two of you now speak Rohirric?” Éowyn looked at the smiles on the Steward and the King.

“I should start to study the language myself,” Imrahil mused. Éowyn suspected she knew what that meant.

Finally, all was settled. The payments of gratitude were agreed to for each family of the fallen. 10 gold pieces and a parcel of land in any territory they desired: Gondor or Rohan. Each had also claimed their dead. The arduous process of writing to the families would start immediately, though Éowyn and Éomer would need to wait until they made it back to Rohan proper to begin visiting with the mourning families. And that would not be until Aragorn’s coronation. Faramir promised each scribes to write the letters.

“We could perhaps ask the artisan who fashioned this wonderful clay seal for me to do so for others for Dol Amroth and Rohan,” Faramir winked at Éowyn, “Please ask Legolas if he would consent.”

“I believe he will, but I shall ask,” Aragorn replied, and Éowyn could feel his contentment.

Finally, all was done. Éomer excused himself to go and get a nap (though Éowyn suspected he needed to go back to his apartment to mourn alone), and Imrahil headed back to his house. Éowyn noticed that Aragorn lingered, and something told her that he was lingering for the two of them.

“Faramir, one more thing,” Aragorn asked, and Éowyn could sense his nerves, “I think it is time for me to move myself into the city, to be amongst our people. Might I ask you for housing?”

Faramir smiled, as if he had been expecting this question, “Let me know your preference, as the King’s quarters are still being refurbished for your return. You may either stay in the Steward’s House, or I’ve prepared quarters near to the rest of our honorable guests.”

Éowyn’s stomach dropped. Aragorn turned to her the moment her stomach lurched, and she knew he sensed it. She was not sure what to say. She was still getting used to the presence of the man who knew everything about her pain, and was the cause of some of it. And she sensed that proximity to him would keep the connection of their emotions open. She was not sure that she liked that option, though the Steward’s House was near worse, given how much time she spent there with Faramir. No. It was time for her to stop her despair and face her future. Wife of Faramir meant proximity to the King. It was inevitable. Éowyn found the right words.

“I fear that if you choose the guest quarters, a certain set of Hobbits may drop in on you unexpectedly,” Éowyn kept her voice steady, but her eyes twinkled, and so did Aragorn’s. He could feel her forgiveness. And she could feel his relief.

“Your offer is exceptionally kind Faramir, and the guest quarters sound the best. If only because I suspect another set of eyes on Merry and Pippin may be called for,” Aragorn smiled fully then.

Suddenly, Éowyn felt a shadow pass through Aragorn. She looked and saw that he was feeling something in Faramir. The two men made eye contact. Éowyn wondered what they were thinking about, but some understanding seemed to come over Aragorn.

“He’s still in Isengard,” Aragorn said the words to both of them. They knew who he meant.  _ Gríma _ .

“How do you know?” Faramir’s eyes were keen, with some unspoken challenge to Aragorn.

“I looked into my palantír, to see my beloved and see if she would come,” Aragorn admitted, “Then I turned my attention to find him. If only to help you both find solace.”

But when Aragorn spoke the word palantír, his gut lurched and nearly made Éowyn sick. What had happened? Then she saw the haunted look in Faramir’s eyes. And the expression spread like a black mist to Aragorn as well.

“The last act before Denethor tried to burn me alive was looking into one of those vile things. It destroyed him, rotting him from the inside out. I hope that cursed stone stays buried with him for eternity.” there was finality, and there was anger in Faramir’s words. And Éowyn knew he was living his fire dream. Right then.

Faramir walked back into the house. And Éowyn was nearly overwhelmed with Aragorn’s horror.  _ No _ , she thought,  _ your horror will not overwhelm me,  _ and she willed Aragorn away. She then walked up to the forlorn King and took his hand in her’s.

“Thank you for seeking my tormenter, so you could ensure that Faramir and I were safe,” Éowyn looked into Aragorn’s haunted eyes, willing him to understand, “Faramir will find his healing. He is just not there yet. Take your leave and move to the guest quarters, I promise I will take care of the Steward.”

Éowyn patted his hand, and Aragorn turned and left, glancing back one more time. Éowyn felt his anguish fade as he disappeared out the door. She then immediately turned to find where Faramir had gone.  _ His office _ , it was the only place.

Éowyn ascended the stairs and found Faramir in his father’s chair, looking darker than she had seen him in a long time. She walked decisively up to him, then kneeled at his side.

“Tell me your sorrows min elskede,” Éowyn said.

Faramir’s hand was on his face, and she could see that it was trembling.

“I... just remember that faint light in his tower. He’d given up hope, and turned to that damned thing to see a way out. Sauron twisted his mind through that stone…” Faramir was pressing on his forehead, and there was a tear running down his cheek, “He had it with him when he burned himself alive...”

Éowyn stood up and pulled Faramir up and to her. She put her arms around him, protecting him as best she could. She caressed his neck, and waited. Faramir finally let out one great tremor, and his tears came forth. Éowyn just held him while he cried, in anger, in grief, in confusion. Éowyn let him, whispering her love in his ear. But mostly, she just listened to him. She would always be his safe refuge. When he needed to break down, she was there to catch him and help him pick up his pieces.

“You are not your father. Aragorn is not your father. Sauron is defeated. And in your despair, you need only to turn to me. I will  _ always _ be there for you.” Éowyn kissed Faramir’s neck as she said it, willing her love into him, “If any errant Nazgûl needs a good slaying, you have your own personal Wraithbane.”

It had its intended effect, and Faramir laughed. Éowyn then looked at the chair, and she knew what she was going to do.

“I love you me'a en' coiamin,” Faramir started kissing her back.

“Do you trust me?” Éowyn looked into her Steward’s eyes.

“With my everything,” Faramir replied.

“Open that window. All the way.” Éowyn replied.

Faramir did as asked. Éowyn took in a deep breath and heaved the Steward’s chair over her side. She walked purposefully over to the window, looked down, and thrust it out. The loud shatter startled both of them, and Faramir’s look of shock quickly turned into a look of utter amusement.

“You just threw my chair out the window,” Faramir’s face was pale.

“I threw your  _ father’s _ chair out the window. It never fit you.” Éowyn replied matter-of-factly, “Rohan is happy to reimburse the damage done by their Princess.”

“Oi!” the voice was out the window, and Éowyn and Faramir looked down to see Aragorn and Éomer standing outside slightly out of breath, looking at the wreckage.

“Brother, I think we will need to find the Steward a new chair,” Éowyn called down, “This one appears to be broken beyond repair.”

Éomer looked flabbergasted. Aragorn wore an immense grin. Éowyn could sense his relief.

“...Just a chair?” Éomer was still baffled, but decided not to interrogate further.

“Yes. Well, for today.” Éowyn grinned, and felt Faramir’s hand find her’s, “I fear you’ve already given your fairest maid to the Steward!”

Faramir was the first to laugh. Éomer just rolled his eyes.

“I hope he likes horsehair.” Éomer snorted, then both Aragorn and he turned to head back to the guest quarters, speaking softly but animatedly.

“The way Éomer wanted to finish that sentence is he hopes you like horsehair because you have yourself a horse’s arse,” Éowyn laughed merrily, “We often used horsehair as shorthand for that.”

“You threw my chair out the window,” Faramir was still repeating himself, but Éowyn could hear the joy returning to his voice, “Min elskede, at some point you will run out of things to break to bring me back from my despair.”

“I will have a larger suite of healing methods once we are married,” Éowyn made sure Faramir could see the fire in her eyes when she said it, “And you underestimate the size of my bag of tricks.”

Faramir grabbed her and pulled her to him, and groaned into her mouth as they kissed. Yes, Faramir certainly did see the fire in her eyes.

“Every moment we are together and not married is the sweetest torture,” Faramir said between kisses.

“For me too min elskede,” Éowyn kissed him one last time, “Now, I will call upon you this afternoon. Keep it open and free of work. For now, please go and take care of the Steward’s affairs at Prince Imrahil’s. Tell him your fiancée threw your chair out the window. I love you, but I must be off to the House of Healing.”

Éowyn let herself have one more lingering kiss with her raven-haired Steward, then left. She walked home briskly to change into her healer’s apprentice clothing. She looked up and saw Faramir’s window. There would be no more vigils awaiting Gríma Wormtongue. Aragorn had given Éowyn that solace. Their windows were now only for them, and their candles.


	32. Imrahil 4

There were some days that Imrahil wished desperately that his wife still lived. Days of sorrow and days of rejoicing. When the Shadow was defeated by the Hobbits, he wished she had lived. When Imrahil saw Lothíriel after she returned from her evening in the city with Éomer, he wished his wife could have been there too. The joy in Lothíriel’s face was so palpable that Imrahil felt his own heart swell for love of the young King. That  _ he _ was still alive to see their love bloom was a blessing beyond the Valar. He wished also that she could see her nephew, so thoughtful and pained as a child find a love so deep it had the power to heal him. He wished she could have seen her nephew command the room for council meetings as the unforeseen Steward. Imrahil’s life was still blessed, but to have her survive to see these days, he still longed for it.

Imrahil had left the Book of the Dead council meeting exhausted but also refreshed. When he witnessed the combined will of the Kings and the Steward, he  _ knew _ what the future held.  _ And Éowyn _ , he thought,  _ I should never forget about Éowyn. _ When she spoke, everyone listened, because the truth she spoke had the power to change the conversation. Their vision together gave Imrahil not only hope, but optimism. The new Dawn would not simply be a return to a time of peace, but a will toward a different future, a  _ better _ future. Could the force of them overpower the sentiments of old? Imrahil hoped so, and he wanted to help build the world he could see them imagining.

Imrahil returned to find his house empty, as his children were down on the second level picking up various items for the party that evening. Imrahil sighed. It was time to start working his way through Dol Amroth’s brave and dead. Though scribes were writing most of the letters, Imrahil knew each and every one of his knights so well he would not trust a single other person to write to their families. If he closed his eyes, he could see them. He saw them kneeling as he placed his sword on their shoulders and pronounced them knights. He remembered the acts of bravery in their careers, halting attacks from Umbar and slaying wayward Orcs. He also vividly remembered their deaths, several of which came about because of acts of valor to save their Prince. The promise of the future came with a high price, and Imrahil wanted to make sure that every family knew that their loved ones did not give their lives in vain.

Imrahil sat down at his desk, he pulled out his parchment, ink, and quill, then looked at the thirteen names. He then closed his eyes once more and concentrated on the first name. Sir Aphrose of Belfalas: fallen in the Pelennor Fields riding with Imrahil to support the Rohirrim in their charge. He left a wife, 2 sons, and 3 daughters behind. As he pictured both the brightest and darkest moments of his brave Knight’s career, Imrahil began writing. It was harder than he thought, and he barely suppressed his tears. Then a rap on the door startled him.

“Come,” Imrahil called, wondering who it could be.

“Mind if I join you uncle?” it was Faramir, carrying a large satchel full of papers and books, “Éowyn threw my chair out the window.”

Imrahil could not have heard Faramir right. The look on Faramir’s face was not one of distress, but one of amusement.

“Of course, please join me!” Imrahil replied, “...chair out the window?..”

“Yes,” Faramir replied, “Denethor’s chair. She promised that Rohan would repay Gondor for the deeds of its Princess.”

Imrahil noted Faramir’s grin as he said this. He truly had met his match.

“Well nephew, you are most welcome. Please make yourself comfortable. I’ll call my butler to arrange for some snacks and wine,” Imrahil smiled at him, “Wait… did Éowyn suggest you haunt my doorstep?”

Faramir nodded solemnly, then a look of concern flashed across his face, “please let me know if my presence is a burden.”

“No burden at all! I’m writing the letters to my fallen Knights’ families. I daresay that I had wished for company, so you are fulfilling that wish,” Imrahil said, “So much death…”

“Their families will be taken care of,” Faramir replied, “And their memories will not be forgotten.”

Imrahil nodded, he knew that, but that did not soften the blow. It would take Middle Earth a long time to recover from the wounds inflicted by the long scourge of darkness. The death of his Knights was but a small piece. The haunts on the faces of every survivor were a daily reminder of the cost, even as the grief for the dead was a welcome replacement for the never-ending dread.

“How do you think families will respond to the inheritance decree?” Imrahil had been thinking about that moment Éowyn had changed the conversation. He liked the idea of eldest born and widows inheriting from the fallen, but suspected there would be some who did not.

“It will be a change, but Middle Earth is changed,” Faramir was thoughtful.

“Is there some story to Éowyn’s experience that led her to that insight?” Imrahil had caught notice of the ghosts that appeared on Éomer, Aragorn, and Faramir’s faces when she mentioned it.

Faramir sighed, and paused. Imrahil could tell he was collecting his thoughts.

“Rohan suffered from the poison of a man named Gríma Wormtongue, working with Saruman to bring down the kingdom from the inside. Gríma’s intention was to kill all heirs save Éowyn, then claim the throne for himself by force,” Faramir’s face was dark and angry, even as his voice was matter-of-fact, “Gríma haunted her steps… but that is all I will say.”

Imrahil’s face turned white. Every new piece of information he learned about the children of the House of Eorl increased not only his sadness at what they experienced, but also his admiration for what they had overcome.  _ Of course _ Éowyn would speak up on behalf of widows and daughters, because she understood the type of men who would hunt them. Éowyn used her own horrors to protect others from similar.

“She is a remarkable woman Faramir,” Imrahil said, “And this explains… Éomer’s… reserve with my daughter.”

“Reserve?” Faramir asked.

“In battles, Éomer was the first to charge forth. Then around Loth, he is nearly shy,” Imrahil replied, “As if letting himself feel what is in his heart would hurt her.”

Faramir nodded, but then smiled, “Don’t underestimate the drive of Éomer’s heart, and don’t underestimate Lothíriel’s ability to open it. She likes to lead, and he is unafraid to follow.”

Faramir thought a bit longer, then added one more thing, “Éowyn thinks she has a new sister-in-law already, so perhaps you should stop fretting. Keep giving them fresh air and space. The soil is fertile and the seeds are planted. Their love will keep growing.”

“How did you and Éowyn find your love?” Imrahil had wanted to ask Faramir this since he returned.

“I think I loved her near the first moment I saw her,” Faramir replied, and Imrahil could see that there was a light burning from inside him,, “And only became more sure as we spoke. For her? I think it took a bit longer. She needed to trust me, and so I opened my heart to her and let her in, and was rewarded not only with her love, but with my own healing.”

“Honest. That was the word Lothíriel used to describe Éomer.” Imrahil mused.

“Advice I think my fiancée passed on to her brother,” Faramir replied, the smile still across his face.

“Good advice,” Imrahil replied, “...as for the chair… why did Éowyn throw it out the window?”

Faramir’s face turned grave, “Exorcising demons.”

Imrahil thought this was the end of the thought, but he could see Faramir considering something. Faramir shook his head, “I did not know that Aragorn uses a palantír.”

“Does he?” Imrahil could see Faramir’s distress

“Yes,” Faramir placed his thumbs to the bridge of his nose, “I watched father slowly become poisoned by that stone. Going in his moments of despair in hopes of finding some promise of the future, only to return from it madder and more despairing than when he left.”

“I cannot speak to Aragorn and your father’s experiences. I might expect that you should trust Aragorn to speak openly about why he uses such a stone. And if you’re not open to confronting your King, ask Mithrandir,” Imrahil replied, “Aragorn’s will to point his palantír where he desired against the will of Sauron drew the dark Lord’s eye to him and away from all others.”

Faramir nodded again, but Imrahil could sense his nephew was not satisfied. There was some distress still there.

_ There’s more to this _ , Imrahil saw the shadows cast in his nephew’s eyes, then it dawned on him. Éowyn had asked Faramir to join him, because she didn’t want him to be alone in that oppressive office, reminding him endlessly of Denethor.

“Well nephew, you are more than welcome in this office with me until Éowyn has had her say with all your father’s old furniture,” Imrahil looked deeply into Faramir’s eyes, his jest came with his concern, “Perhaps together we can even make a good dent in this pile of papers covered in your notes!”

Faramir laughed, and both men settled into the tasks that were set for them. Rapid-fire conversations interrupted the flow only every so often, as Faramir asked questions of Imrahil and he answered. Imrahil could barely believe how much his nephew had done in the short weeks since the new Dawn, spanning from personalizing letters for his fallen Ithilien Rangers, to sending scouts to the secret stores of grain, to taking account of Gondor’s resources, to writing to each and all of their allies offering help and inviting them to the coronation, which he was spearheading. Faramir had been working on enemy casualty counts over the afternoon, to understand just how complete their rout was.

“Uncle?” Faramir was studying a letter.

“Yes Faramir?” Imrahil put down his quill, ten letters done.

“Harad wants to send an envoy to discuss a peace treaty,” Faramir held the letter up, toward Imrahil, “Do you think a favorable treaty with Harad will bring Umbar to the table?”

“Umbar is its own nation I fear,” Imrahil thought gravely about the skirmishes his navy had been forced into, “Even at their weakest, there is still bad blood there. It is a feud as old as Númenor that halts our progress.”

“My thought exactly. Terms of any treaty with Harad will be terms with Harad, and no others,” Faramir sighed, “The rout was universal. So the type of warfare we should be preparing for in the coming years will be against much smaller factions targeting high impact targets.”

“Acts of sabotage then?” Imrahil joined in Faramir’s speculation. Faramir nodded.

“I want to increase our Ranger forces across Middle Earth,” Faramir’s eyes were full of intense concentration, “And I’ve been working on an information-sharing agreement between Gondor and Rohan, but should like one between all the great realms.”

“You will need more than Rangers if you want to form such a spy network,” Imrahil replied, “And perhaps then you should outfit each of our Allies with a Lord or Lady who can speak for the realm. I’d happily volunteer myself to become an Ambassador to Rohan.”

Faramir’s concentration broke, and he looked at Imrahil carefully. Then suddenly his eyes were alight, “Uncle! That is an excellent idea! One who can speak on behalf of the realm but with a friendship with their ally. I will ask Éowyn if she believes that Éomer would be interested in such an arrangement.”

“Do you think there is doubt?” Imrahil asked.

“No, I believe that he will accept this heartily. But I do not make such decisions without first consulting with my most trusted advisor,” Faramir’s eyes twinkled, “Could there be other motivations for your decision uncle?”

“Perhaps,” Imrahil winked, “Elphir is ready to take over Dol Amroth.”

“I suspect that is not the whole of it,” Faramir was smiling at him.

“No.” Imrahil admitted, “It is Éomer. A King before his time, and yet he has the makings of greatness. As do you all. I want to be there to watch him attain it. To  _ help _ him in any way I can.”

“So, Lothíriel was not a purely political motive,” Faramir said coyly.

Imrahil laughed, “No. As you discovered in meeting Éowyn, it is hard to understand any who have met those two who would not want to permanently be in their presence.”

“Do you think it would be possible for Éowyn to act as ambassador of Rohan?” Faramir asked earnestly, and Imrahil knew he was not asking to elevate the position of his wife, but because he knew she was the right choice.

“The court will need to get used to many changes. If you can convince your King, I daresay all others will fall in line.” Imrahil answered.

Faramir smiled, “It seems I have a lot to talk with my future wife about.”

“Have you spoken about the wedding plans yet?” Imrahil asked.

“No. That is at the bottom of my pile.” Faramir replied, and Imrahil could hear some sadness in his voice.

“I can’t think of anything more important,” Imrahil let his voice become stern, “Your own happiness does not come second to the realm.”

“But… there is so much…” Faramir looked sheepish.

“Tell you what,” Imrahil interrupted, “You and Éowyn should find one hour each day to plan. In that hour, I will become the acting Steward, to ensure that you do not feel the wellness of the realm suffers from your hour of neglect.”

Imrahil could see the retort on Faramir’s face, but Faramir swallowed it. He then exhaled and Imrahil was sure he’d watched tension release from his nephew’s shoulders.

“One hour a day.” Faramir looked intently into Imrahil, “Thank you uncle.”

“I suggest you see if there is any violation of decorum to marry Éowyn when we return Théoden to Rohan,” Imrahil believed it was the earliest it could be arranged, “Ask tonight. I believe my children could be recruited to help.”

Faramir looked distraught. Imrahil continued, “Nephew, we’ve just been through a grievous war, we’ve all seen our loved ones die, and we are all haunted by the memories of those dark days. Give us all the joy we deserve by allowing us to celebrate your love. I fear you do not know the power your love story has on the lower levels.”

“I want to be married to Éowyn more than I think I have ever wanted anything,” Faramir’s voice was quiet, and Imrahil could hear that small thoughtful boy from all those years ago, “As does she.”

“Then begin planning it as such. Stop denying yourself the happiness you deserve,” Imrahil had not let the sternness go from his voice.

The topic of weddings seemed to have lightened the mood of the room. Every so often Imrahil would glance up at Faramir. He was often in deep concentration, but as if he could not help it, smiles kept appearing upon his face. Imrahil knew he was thinking of Éowyn.

“Uncle, do you perhaps have sealing wax I can use?” Faramir had looked up, neat piles of completed work on the table he was using. Somehow, despite their acting as distractions to one another, their presence together meant they had finished off the gargantuan piles of work that lay before them.

“Of course,” Imrahil found the stick of wax on his desk and walked it over to Faramir, “Where’s the ring?”

Faramir’s eyes widened, with mingled guilt and delight. He was holding a clay seal to use for the Steward’s seal.

“Éowyn is… cleaning it,” Faramir replied.

Imrahil let out a laugh. Denethor’s chair and Denethor’s ring. Éowyn had a gift for seeking out those items darkened most by Denethor’s shadows, then whisking them away to be made anew, made for Faramir the Steward, not Denethor the Steward.

“She seems to be repainting your Stewardship, covering the dark and dour with light,” Imrahil mused.

“That she is.” Faramir had that inward grin once again, “Married. In Rohan. Yes. It’s perfect.”

“What work have you got left?” Imrahil inquired as Faramir placed a stamp on the last of his letters.

“Only the letters for my fallen Rangers’ families,” Faramir replied, “I may wait to do that until I see Éowyn. She has told me she will call upon me this afternoon. And demanded all my work be done.”

“And that you have done!” Imrahil beamed, “Faster than your Father on his best day. For now, would you care to join me for some late lunch? We could eat in the courtyard and watch my staff prepare for the party tonight. You may even get a chance to say hello to Lothíriel and ask her about her evening.”

“That sounds… wonderful,” Faramir’s eyes twinkled, “I’ve already spoken to Éomer, so it will be … interesting … to see if her impressions were similar.”

As they retired, Faramir handed the large satchel to an attendant to return to the Steward’s House, and the pile of letters to messengers. As they came out to the courtyard, Imrahil saw that lunch was already prepared. He always admired his staff for their attention to details.

“You know how Lothíriel feels when you use your far sight to question her,” Imrahil admonished, gently.

“And she would turn it on me,” Faramir answered, “And before I know it, she would have interrogated the exact color of Éomer’s face when we asked him about the evening!”

The men shared a laugh. Yes, Lothíriel had certainly inherited that particular set of Númenorean traits.

“Are you speaking about me?” a musical voice interrupted them.  
Lothíriel came through the archway, dressed in the plain dress she seemed to assume made her less graceful (it did not). Her hair was braided in the back.

“We were mir tel’ear!” Imrahil beamed at his daughter.

“Wonderful to see you cousin,” Lothíriel walked over and pulled Faramir in for a hug, “But what brings the Steward to call?”

“Éowyn threw my chair out the window,” Faramir kept his face still, a challenge to Lothíriel to find meaning. The duel of their wits was on.

“Did she?” Lothíriel’s face showed only amusement, but Imrahil could see the gears in her mind working, “One in the Steward’s office?”

“Yes,” Faramir replied, his eyes alight.

“You are here, so I expect it was the one at your…” Lothíriel paused, “wait. at  _ Uncle Denethor’s _ old desk.”

Imrahil was forever impressed by his daughter’s insight.

“Yes,” Faramir replied again, and his joy had leaked to the corners of his mouth.

“Beyond repair?” Lothíriel’s eyes matched Faramir’s.

“Far beyond.” Faramir was fully smiling now, “Éowyn has assured me that Rohan will be providing me a new one.”

Lothíriel fully laughed at this in that musical way of her’s.

“Éowyn finds ways to shine light in the dark,” Lothíriel replied, and Imrahil knew she understood.

“That she does.” Faramir bowed to Lothíriel, and there was an extra twinkle in his eyes, “Speaking of lights in the dark. How was your night on the town with Éomer?”

Color immediately showed in Lothíriel’s cheeks, but a certain understanding also dawned on her.

“It was lovely,” Lothíriel was squaring herself up for another battle, “I hope he shared the same sentiment?”

Faramir laughed heartily, “I should know better than to match wits with you cousin. I should not like to break the confidence of a King, and my future brother-in-law.”

“Your smiles says what I need to know,” Lothíriel was glowing, “I should hope to find more time to spend with him. Beregil was an excellent escort, and we would be pleased if he would be willing to escort us in the future.”

Seeing the exchange between his daughter and cousin cemented it for Imrahil. The King of Rohan was to be his son-in-law.

“Ada, please remove that grin from your face. Nothing is yet set in stone,” Lothíriel spoke in Sindarin, her cheeks still quite red.

“I said nothing. In fact, I was thinking only of my request to Faramir to make me ambassador to Rohan,” Imrahil grinned as he watched his daughter’s cheeks darken a shade more, “You of course would be welcome to join me, should my request be granted.”

“You are insufferable Ada,” Lothíriel rolled her eyes, but Imrahil saw the smile she could not hide. With that, Lothíriel swept from the room.

“Fresh air uncle,” Faramir chided, also in Sindarin, “Let them grow their roots themselves.”

“And you needs must start planning a Rohan wedding. Do you have a seal of the House of Húrin? Wedding invitations are not affairs of the Steward, but rather of Faramir the man.” Imrahil inquired.

“I have not yet brought myself to go through the rest of the Steward’s house.” Faramir answered.

“All in that house is now your’s Faramir.” Imrahil had put his hand on Faramir’s, “Finduilas’s dress on Éowyn was truly a marvel. Your mother would be so happy for you.”

A tear was in the corner of Faramir’s eye, then he looked up at Imrahil, the small boy inside the remarkable man.

“Do you think anyone would find it …  _ untoward _ if I asked Éowyn to join me at that task?” Faramir was seeking approval, Imrahil was touched.

“Of course not! Though I fear it would be easier to justify if you bring your wife into your house.” Imrahil replied, wanting to be completely honest with his nephew, “How about this. I will help you catalog what is in the house. I am sure that Loth, Erch, and Am would happily join us. It should lighten the memory, and prepare for when you and Éowyn make that house your home.”

“I am not sure I want to make that my home uncle,” Faramir’s eyes carried some deep earnestness as he said this.

“You will not take up residence at the Steward’s house?” Imrahil swallowed his worry, “Where might you want to take up residence?”

“Ithilien.” Faramir was looking out into the distance.

Imrahil nodded. They could take the Ranger out of Ithilien, but they would never be able to take Ithilien out of the Ranger. Suddenly Imrahil felt worry rise in his gut. As he observed Aragorn with Faramir, he knew the new King would almost certainly keep Faramir as Steward. It was obvious. He had not given thought to whether or not Faramir  _ wanted _ to be Steward. He’d supposed that with time, the shadows cast by Denethor could be healed. But then he thought of Finduilas. His bright light of a sister fading under the oppression of the city. Faramir was much more like his mother, even as he had the wisdom and prowess of his father.

“It seems that your heart has been stolen by more than one,” Imrahil’s voice was coy, but he could still hear his sadness in it.

“Emyn Arnen, the seat of the original House of Húrin. I dream of reclaiming it,” Faramir spoke, and Imrahil saw that light in his eyes, the one he got when he thought of Éowyn.

“Half a day’s ride from Minas Tirith,” Imrahil replied

Faramir let out a thoughtful laugh, “That is exactly what Aragorn said.”

“Did he?” Imrahil looked at his nephew, “A strange conversation to have with the King…”  
Imrahil suspected it was not strange at all.

“He asked me to remain Steward,” Faramir said what Imrahil suspected, “I must answer him tomorrow.”

“I wish the same thing,” Imrahil spoke honestly, “I can see the vision you have for the world Faramir. I want that future. And I do not think anyone could bring it to us save for you.”

“Uncle…” Faramir started a thought, but a presence in the courtyard interrupted him. Imrahil turned to see Éowyn being escorted in. She was in a glowing white dress, and was holding an apprentice cap.

“Hello Prince, I had heard I might find the Steward here?” Éowyn smiled. Faramir got up and strolled toward his fiancée, placing a kiss on her forehead.

“You have found me min elskede,” Faramir did not let go.

“My shift is now over, and I’d said I would call on you, is now a good time?” Éowyn asked them both.

Imrahil wanted to say no, he wanted to understand more about why Faramir was hesitant to take up his Stewardship, but the look on Faramir’s face was enough for him to know that keeping them was a lost cause.

“Now is as good as any,” Imrahil replied, “And it appears you have many things to talk about. I should expect to hear something about ambassadorships and wedding dates soon.”

Faramir’s muscles tightened, and Éowyn narrowed her eyes, studying Imrahil.  _ Good, I got Éowyn’s attention _ , Imrahil thought, and did not let the grin fall from his face.

“Thank you  _ uncle _ ,” Faramir’s smile was strained.

“My pleasure,” Imrahil smiled back.

As Faramir and Éowyn said goodbye and took their leave, Imrahil found he needed a walk. He would head up to the Citadel, to the white tree to think. He would think about fallen Knights and ambassadorships, but really, he wanted most to think about family. Of Lothíriel and Faramir, and the golden siblings of Rohan who had so won his and his family’s hearts.


	33. Faramir 8

“What is this about ambassadors and weddings?” Éowyn looked keenly at Faramir, smiling at his frown. They were nearly to the Steward’s House.

“Imrahil thinks the best time for us to wed is just after we escort Théoden King back to Rohan,” Faramir could feel a little color come into his cheeks,  _ of course _ he wanted to marry Éowyn that soon, “But of course… if that is disrespectful, I would never want to suggest…”

Éowyn laughed and placed a kiss upon his lips, “Rohan and Gondor have different ways of mourning. In Rohan, marrying then would be perfect. It would be a celebration of life and love to honor Théoden’s memory. I will ask my brother tonight at Imrahil’s party.”

“To be married to you  _ so soon _ min elskede,” Faramir pulled Éowyn in closer for another kiss.

“Before you get your hopes up, let me talk to Éomer. And you should talk to Aragorn,” Éowyn looked at him, and he could feel her hope as keenly as his own. “Now what is this about ambassadors?”

“A brilliant idea from my uncle. Having one familiar with Gondor stay in Rohan’s court to speak for Gondor, and vice versa,” Faramir replied, “Imrahil asked to become ambassador of Gondor in Rohan, and we both think to ask you if you would be willing to take the role of ambassador of Rohan in Gondor.”

Faramir could see both amusement and thought in his beloved’s eyes. Clearly she understood  _ why _ Imrahil wanted a foothold in Rohan. Faramir wondered if she also understood why they both thought she was perfect for such a matching role in Gondor.

“I think Éomer would agree,” Éowyn replied, a smile just cracking the edges of her face, “As for Aragorn…”

“King Elessar would agree to your appointment min elskede, because you are perfect for such a role. I daresay you know as much about Rohan and its people as Éomer… perhaps more,” Faramir kissed Éowyn again, “I do not think you need it, but I would go so far as to become insolent with the King if he disagreed.”

At this, Éowyn laughed, “Faramir, I nearly want him to refuse me to see what you consider being insolent!”

Faramir smiled in spite of himself. Éowyn, not only his in marriage but his advisor for the rest of his life. It was almost too much to wish for. Faramir thought of the previous night, just listening to her deep breathing as she slept. He had barely moved for fear of waking her, so still she was. Faramir’s task of staying awake that night was easier than it had ever been in Ithilien, if just to look upon the woman he loved. He would stay awake for her the rest of his life if it allowed her to sleep nightmare-free. The first glints of twilight had never felt bittersweet to him before, but there he was, finally having to leave her. He’d jotted the note about breakfast in anticipation of feeling her absence. When he got back to the Steward’s House, he had taken a bath. Those hours of wakefulness were almost as relaxing as trying to sleep, as slumber would bring more fire dreams. He already hoped to see Éowyn’s candle again tonight, and knew he would be lighting one himself.

Faramir also found he could not stop thinking about Aragorn’s palantír. The mild nausea that always accompanied his notice of the faint orange light in the white tower was upon him again. It was bringing the flames closer to his conscious thoughts, and threatened to overtake him before he could swallow them down. He wondered if Éowyn could ever know how much she meant to him, because he could always see her through the black mists. The day she stormed into his life was the day his life changed.

“I want to marry you in Rohan.” Faramir’s statement took Éowyn by surprise, as she studied him, a look of concern crossed her face.

“Tell me your sorrows, min elskede,” Éowyn put her hand to his cheek, and they walked through his door, “Tell me in the garden.”

Faramir sighed. There was so much to tell her. He did not know where to start, only that he needed to stop hesitating telling her when he was in pain.

“So many things min elskede. You know I have been dreaming of fire,” Faramir held her tightly, willing away the images in his head, “I watched my father waste away from that palantír. I watched it consume him. When I spoke with Beregond about those last moments, I  _ know _ that he was driven into his madness by looking into his accursed stone one last time. It was the time that broke him, the time that he decided ending my life in fire was a more merciful way to end me than to let me live and fight. I hope they bury it with him.”

Faramir could feel the trembling start. Éowyn guided him onto the small patch of grass in the garden, where, to his surprise, there was a blanket. They both sat.

“Lay your head on my lap min elskede, and keep telling me your sorrows,” Éowyn said, her voice gentle as a lullaby. Faramir obeyed. Her thighs were soft against his head, and her fingers began to stroke his brow softly. He could feel her will and her love pass through her fingers and into him, willing him on to tell her more, to tell her all.

“What happens if I say yes and stay Steward? What happens if Aragorn starts losing his mind to the stone like my father did? What do I do? Challenge my own King? I am terrified that by staying, I seal my fate to either become my father, or to watch another become my father,” Faramir heard the words pour out of him, many which he had not let come forth for fear of what they might mean, “I lived my life under the shadow. Not only the one in the east, but the one that gained a foothold in my father’s mind. The one that I could see flickers of in my own brother’s eyes. We guarded Middle Earth against Sauron. That darkness found a way into our hearts. What do I do if it never truly leaves me? What if those same flares of madness come over me? What if they come over Aragorn and I must harm my King to save my people?”

Faramir could feel the tears threatening to escape. The fear of this wretched fate finally willing its way into his conscious mind. Éowyn’s fingers continued to stroke his brow, and it soothed him.

“Then we will mutiny together,” Éowyn looked down at him, love and assurance in her eyes, “Both Imrahil and Aragorn are right min elskede, you are an extraordinary Steward. But that does not mean that you should be caged to that fate if it seeks to unmake you. I swear on my life that I will never let them put you in a cage.”

Faramir could feel the tears in his eyes now. Éowyn’s words were truth, he knew she would never let one she loved be caged. It made him feel safe, knowing that he had her will, and that she was not pushing him toward the Stewardship if he did not want it.

“Éowyn?” Faramir’s voice was low, “Boromir tried to take the ring from Frodo.”

“And you did not,” Éowyn replied, seemingly unphased by his admission, “You are not Boromir min elskede. You are not your father. And I will keep throwing furniture that is covered in his cobwebs from windows until everything around you reminds you that you are a man driven by hope and love, not by desperation and pride.”

Éowyn leaned over and kissed Faramir. Not a kiss that was full of longing, but one that cleansed. Faramir did not want her kiss to stop, so good it felt, but the shadows of his mind were not retreating fast enough.

“What if I say no?” Faramir asked.

“Then I shall marry you in Rohan, and we will move to Ithilien together,” Éowyn smiled at him, “And we will be happy.”

“What if I say yes?”

“Then I will marry you in Rohan, and we will move to Ithilien together,” Éowyn leaned in for another kiss, “And we will be happy.”

Faramir puzzled at her surety.

“I am not sure that I could be Steward and live in Ithilien,” Faramir replied.

“Why not min elskede? Ithilien is less than a day’s ride, and once I have my say over the horses we shall breed, it will be shorter still,” Éowyn stroked his face. He loved when she did that, “You can claim fair Ithilien be you Steward or no.”

Faramir smiled. How was she so sure?

“What if Aragorn demands I stay in the city as Steward?” Faramir had been worried it would come to this, it felt wonderful sharing it with her.

“Then tell him that a condition upon your being Steward is living in Ithilien,” Éowyn said it matter-of-factly, as if negotiating with his King was acceptable.

“I fear that is my definition of insolent!” Faramir smiled

“Then you must change your definition!” Éowyn laughed, “Insolent is wearing a spoon on your nose when the King comes to call. Not asking for that which is your heart’s deepest desire, and something that you deserve more than most.”

Faramir couldn’t resist, he pushed himself up and stole a wet and delicious kiss from his beloved. He reveled in it as he used his tongue to taste her mouth. He then pulled his head back and returned to resting it on her thigh. Just thinking of where he was... he was certain he’d give up eternal bliss for these moments with her.

“I  _ have _ my heart’s deepest desire,” Faramir’s face was twisted into a grin, “Now I just need to marry you.”

Éowyn laughed, “Another demand to become Steward then. A prompt Rohirric wedding and a seat in Ithilien.”

“Emyn Arnen. That was the seat of the House of Húrin. I want to make it whole again,” Faramir looked into the deep blue eyes of his beloved, “If I were to get all of my heart’s greatest desires, it would be settling there and restoring its place. With you.”

“Do you want to be Steward?” Éowyn’s eyes were thoughtful as she asked.

“I… don’t know. I don’t yet know who King Elessar is. I like Aragorn the man, I can’t help it. But… what if…” Faramir paused.

“He becomes like your father…” Éowyn finished his thought.

“Yes…” Faramir whispered.

“Perhaps the curse of our mixed emotions is then a blessing,” Éowyn was gazing beyond Faramir, deep in contemplation, “If the connection between us never goes away, we will feel his madness. And together, we can plan how to fight it, even if we must fight him.”  
Faramir sat up, looking intently into Éowyn’s eyes. She was serious.

“Take back the throne by  _ force _ Éowyn?” Faramir could feel a pit in his stomach forming, worried that was where she was going.

“No. I think you needs must be completely honest with him. He needs to know your concern. Do you not think that he  _ saw _ that faint light in the tower in your shadows min elskede?” Éowyn replied, “And tell him ever will we be watching for that madness. And that we will confront him if there is even a shadow of a suspicion. I threw a chair out a window, so too can I throw a stone from a great height.”

Faramir wanted to pull her to him and ask her to marry him all over again. It was the revelation he needed. There was no other who could stop the King should he surrender to the madness of the stone. There were no others, save for Merry and Éowyn, who would be able to feel a creeping madness if it started to overtake the King.

“I need to be Steward, don’t I?” Faramir finished his own thought, but he wanted to know if Éowyn had reached a similar conclusion.

“You do not need to be anything you do not want to be,” Éowyn replied, “But I fear you and I are of the same opinion. Your Stewardship and the power of your connection to the King is a safeguard for your people… and for your King. You are one of only three who may be able to sense the stone overpowering the man, and the only one who has intimate knowledge of a man whom the stone turned to madness.”

Faramir nodded, “It appears I have a fraught conversation coming my way.”

“I might suggest that I also take part in this conversation. Aragorn has strength enough to face us both,” Éowyn replied, “Because I too will be keeping watch, to protect both of you.”

“I love you,” Faramir said, “More than I thought it was possible to love.”

“Then we shall use our wills to cow our Kings into allowing us to marry in Rohan,” Éowyn smiled, “If only because then I will know the number of days I must count until we get to share our bed.”

Éowyn’s bold words made images of them flash through Faramir’s mind; images and desire that were unhelped by the current resting place of his head. To get to explore her body and touch her skin, to kiss  _ all _ of her. To make love to her and to feel that sacred bliss… even when he woke up from the most intense fire dream, thinking about the revelries of that night could stay his mind and bring him back from the shadow. Éowyn seemed to be following his thoughts, as a sly smile appeared on her face.

“Now min elskede, it is time for me to return to you what you gave to me last night,” Éowyn began stroking Faramir’s forehead again, “You have done enough work that the rest can wait until tomorrow. My shift at the House of Healing is over and I have brought my reading with me. Your staff will leave us be, so it is time for you to close your eyes and let yourself sleep. I will be here with you, and as you stood guard over me, so I will for you. Now, rest.”

Faramir almost bolted up, but he could feel Éowyn’s hand on his chest, gently resisting his urge to do so. He realized the blanket had been placed on her instruction, that she had  _ planned _ this. He loved her even more. He stopped fighting with himself, and beamed up at his future wife. She was perfect.

“I surrender,” Faramir looked into her eyes, “please tell me about your time in the House of Healing. And I will close my eyes.”

“I met Frodo Baggins,” Éowyn started, her voice steady as if she were singing a lullaby with her story, “He is now awake and as thoughtful as any I’ve ever seen. He loved the hot chocolate. Merry and Pippin and Sam were telling tales of the Shire, specifically of the adventures of Bilbo Baggins, Frodo’s uncle…”

Each of Éowyn’s words was more soothing than the last, and try as he did to stay awake to hear every sweet wonderful syllable come out of her mouth, sleep was winning. Éowyn’s gentle caresses to his forehead were like warm kisses his mother used to place on him as a baby. Finally, Faramir gave in, and drifted away, thinking upon seas of grass and cozy holes, of ponds and water lilies and Shirefolk.

When Faramir reopened his eyes, he felt refreshed. The sunlight of the afternoon had faded into the soft light of early evening. Éowyn was there, a book in her hand. He felt her hands on his jaw the moment he had stirred.

“...How long?..” Faramir rubbed sleep from his eye, and noted his voice was raspy from his slumber.

“Five hours,” Éowyn beamed, “And only once did you fret. It took but a gentle stroke of your brow and you settled again. Did you have fire dreams min elskede?”

“No,” the revelation hit him,  _ no _ he had not had the fire dream, “Did I really sleep five hours?”

“Yes,” Éowyn was trying to hide the bright smile, but it twinkled in her eyes.

“I have not slept… like that in… years,” Faramir marveled at her, “Only when I was so exhausted waking and sleep were the same, and not even then.”

“I suspect we may have a new routine,” Éowyn leaned down and kissed Faramir’s brow.

“My watch over your window I fear now has a new purpose,” Faramir smiled up at Éowyn.

“I fear you will rarely look upon my window and  _ not _ see a candle in it,” Éowyn replied.

“Nor mine,” Faramir leaned up and kissed Éowyn again; a fiancée beyond all blessings of the Valar.

“So tonight. I convince Éomer. And we both convince Aragorn,” a flicker of mischief played in Éowyn’s eyes, “A wedding in Rohan, and an understanding of exactly what accepting the Stewardship entails.”

“ _ And _ , do not forget that we must appoint the most talented ambassador of Rohan we could hope for,” Faramir grinned, “One who is not afraid to speak her mind, whether it be furniture she knows hurts her beloved, or laughter in the face of Fear.”

Éowyn smiled, “I think upon those desperate days. When the thought of killing myself seemed the sweetest form of escape.”

Éowyn then leaned in and kissed Faramir with so much fire he lost his breath.

“Never could I have imagined I would have found you.” Éowyn’s words pierced Faramir’s heart.

There would never be a day in his life he did not thank the Valar to be in her presence. To feel her love. To know that he did for her what she did for him. Imrahil had been right, delaying their marriage was not simply denying himself something he longed for, it was also denying Éowyn her happiness. For the first time in a long time, Faramir had found sleep, and for the first time in nearly a lifetime, Faramir was going to demand all that he wanted.


	34. Aragorn 7

Visions of a faint orange light in the white tower had been plaguing Aragorn since telling Faramir of the scenes in the palantír. How had he forgotten Faramir’s darkest memories of watching his own father fall to Sauron from peering into that stone? The tidal wave of Faramir’s nausea and terror had nearly knocked Aragorn off of his feet. He had spent so much time lingering upon Éowyn’s pain that he had not focused enough on the shadows in Faramir’s memories.

Aragorn remembered Denethor in his youth, a proud man of strong will. He remembered the suspicion Denethor paid him in his disguise as Thorongil. Denethor was a man of incredible insight, but even then, Aragorn knew that Denethor walked along the edge of greatness and madness. He was a Steward for a time of war. A Steward capable of fighting back against the pressing shadow. And under Denethor, Gondor stood firm against it.

 

In spite of Éowyn’s assurance, Aragorn lingered near the Steward’s house, trying to figure out how to undo the hurt his words had brought. Trying to find the proper assurances to the young man that the terror of that faint orange light in the window would haunt him no longer. Aragorn though held in his own emotions, because Éowyn was right. He needed to trust in her healing. He had underestimated her long enough. As if in response to his doubt, Aragorn was flooded with the sensation of Éowyn’s love and care, mingling with Faramir’s terror.

The deafening crack of wood on stone turned Aragorn’s feet and he found himself running toward the Steward’s house followed rapidly by Éomer.

“Oi!” Aragorn had called, to see a grinning Éowyn and a dumbstruck Faramir, Denethor’s old chair in a million splinters, having been launched out the window.

“Brother, I think we will need to find the Steward a new chair,” Éowyn called down, “This one appears to be broken beyond repair.”

Aragorn did not need to ask to understand why she had done it. He could  _ feel _ why. Faramir’s darkness had evaporated in those few moments, replaced with utter disbelief and love. Éowyn really did understand what Faramir needed.

“...Just a chair?” Éomer called up, looking at the mess on the ground.

“Yes. Well, for today.” Éowyn called back down, “I fear you’ve already given your fairest maid to the Steward!”

Aragorn smiled, and he knew his smile was for them, but it was also for the relief of knowing that the wounds he had inflicted could be healed by Éowyn.

“I hope he likes horsehair.” Éomer called up, and both men turned back toward the guest quarters.

“I swear to the Valar Aragorn, my sister is a true horse’s arse,” Éomer was muttering quietly, but there was amusement in his voice, “Keeping a spoon on her nose when you call… throwing chairs out windows… people will think she was raised in a barn.”

Aragorn could not control his laughter at the love and disbelief that radiated from Éomer over Éowyn’s decisions.

“She has instincts capable of healing the most wounded in the world,” Aragorn replied, “In one decisive move, she not only undid a great harm I did to the Steward, she removed an heirloom of pain from his house.”

“What harm did you do?” Éomer had raised his eyebrow and was studying Aragorn carefully.

“I’d forgotten that a deep cut done to the man had not yet healed, and re-opened the wound,” Aragorn did not want to be more specific.  _ I spoke about a palantír when Denethor’s madness nearly doomed Middle Earth and his own son _ .

“Well, I am going to go and write a message to send for the finest horsehair in Rohan be sent to Gondor. If we are going to replace Faramir’s chair, I want it to forever be a reminder to my sister of the love and judgment of her brother,” Éomer tried to sound stern, but Aragorn could hear the laughter in his voice. To have had a sibling that he could love as much as Éomer loved the Princess of Rohan…

“That is all and good friend, I have something I must also attend to,” Aragorn replied.

Aragorn nearly ran out into the field to find his tent. He would move his scant belongings shortly, first he needed to find…

“Gandalf, a word?” Aragorn nearly collided with the white wizard, who looked up puzzlingly.

“Come to collect your supplies Estel?” Gandalf’s gaze was so intense Aragorn felt as if he was peering into his very soul.

“Collecting supplies, and understanding,” Aragorn replied, “Please come with me to my favorite garden, for this conversation requires privacy.”

Gandalf did not break his gaze. The two walked quickly and silently, until Aragorn ducked into the small garden. Its fountain was tinkling joyfully, and there were no others there. Once he was sure of privacy, Aragorn finished his thought.

“I want to know the entire circumstances of Denethor’s death,” Aragorn probed.

“What brings about this interest?” Gandalf continued his intense study of Aragorn’s eyes.

Aragorn wondered how much he should say. Should he reveal his connection to the three he drew from the shadows? Should he reveal just how desperately he needed Faramir to consent to remain Steward? Aragorn sighed. It was no use speaking half truths to wizards. Only whole truths would do.

“When I drew Faramir, Éowyn, and Merry from the shadow… I  _ experienced _ every single one of the memories that brought them to their despair. I’ve seen every moment in their lives that pained them, and it haunts me.” Aragorn started. Gandalf was going to say something, but Aragorn continued, “In addition to this, I now feel what they feel when I am near them, and they feel what I feel. All of this at first felt a curse, but now… there is some… comfort to it.”

“Do they know?” Gandalf looked at Aragorn.

“Yes, they do. Faramir found a passage in Lord Elrond’s  The Elven Arts of Healing ,” Aragorn replied, then without prompting, could feel the smile shine on his face from the Steward’s bathtime confrontation, “It did not describe the emotional connection, but that was quick to understand. All of us have spoken of this together, though I do not think that our conversations about these effects have ended.”

Gandalf nodded. He was waiting for Aragorn to continue. To provide context for his question about Denethor’s death.

“I ask about Denethor because… of the palantír,” Aragorn did not want to share Faramir’s nausea and reaction to the faint light in that high window, “Faramir found I am in possession of the palantír of Orthanc. He said that Denethor’s last act before becoming truly mad was to gaze into the stone of Minas Tirith.”

Gandalf’s gaze turned suddenly from interest to sadness.

“The story is worse than even that Aragorn,” Gandalf replied, “Lord Denethor let himself be burned with that stone. The stone of Minas Tirith has absorbed the last moments of Denethor’s madness, and none but the strongest wills can turn the stone away from the fire that its last true master died in.”

Aragorn shuddered. He could feel the fire around him. He was unable to move, to cry out for help, to defend himself. His mouth was filling with ash. There was blurry commotion around him and he could hear Denethor’s voice screaming, and he knew. Somewhere inside, Faramir remembered the moments he almost died. Moments so tormented that they lay in the deepest and darkest chasms of Faramir’s mind, but there they were, parts of the whole that Aragorn had experienced.

“He dreams of fire…” Aragorn knew. He did not know how he knew, but he knew.

“His dreams are memories of his father’s last desperate moments in Arda,” Gandalf confirmed, “And I believe from your look you just saw for yourself.”

“Did Denethor truly claim that his son was stolen from him?” Aragorn felt cold and clammy from the sickness of that memory.

“...Yes.” Gandalf’s voice, so often so stern, was soft, gentle.

“Someone needs to tell him everything,” Aragorn was firm, “Even this.”

Gandalf nodded, “Keeping the truth from Faramir was never intended to be permanent. It was to save him in those moments when he was so close to succumbing to the shadow. We can tell him now.”

“I want to tell him,” Aragorn knew it must be him, but also wanted it to be, “I saw what he will see. I will feel what he feels.”

“The memories you have of those moments are ones you have taken without leave,” Gandalf replied, “Let Faramir decide who should tell him of those last moments.”

Aragorn knew better than to disagree, but he was certain it should be him. Imrahil’s party was looking to be harrowing. But something this heavy could not linger. Aragorn thought of the Minas Tirith palantír. And he knew what he must do.

“Please come with me to Rath Dínen,” Aragorn pleaded, “I need to see for myself.”

Gandalf nodded, and the two marched up, up, up, to the highest level of the city. Guards moved out of their way, some whispered when they thought he was not looking. The Steward’s permission for the King to go as he pleased even cleared his path to the tombs. Aragorn and Gandalf entered together, and Aragorn saw the gruesome sight of Denethor’s demise himself. Inside the charred flesh sat the palantír he sought.

_ I must _ , Aragorn thought, and willed his hands forward. The palantír responded to his touch, swirling in faint orange. Suddenly Aragorn was pulled away from the present and into the past. He looked out and saw trembling hands on either side of the stone. Blurs of white and black were just out of sight - Gandalf, Faramir, Pippin and Beregond? He tried to move the stone elsewhere, but it fought him. He could hear the voice of Denethor cackling in his mind and could feel the fire consume his flesh. He forced his mind out of the stone, falling backward from the effort.

“The stone is ruined,” Aragorn tried to recover from his trembling, and could feel the cold sweat trickling down his brow, “It should be buried with Denethor, per Faramir’s wish.”

“Are you sure?” Gandalf asked

“It tried to trap me in that place. Denethor could not claim his son so he claimed the stone and any unwary enough to toy with it,” Aragorn replied, he was firm. The madness of Denethor still swirling in his mind. Gandalf nodded, and both looked down at the stone, mourning its potential.

_ This is what Faramir fears he will become _ , Aragorn thought grimly _. _

That was it. Faramir’s hesitance to become Steward was in that stone. It was the curse of Denethor. It was the fear that he would slowly decay like his father had. Like his own brother had started to. Aragorn’s job was to convince him that he would not be tainted by the office and fall into madness. That he would never have to carry the responsibility his forebears bore, and Aragorn would never let that type of hurt come to him. Aragorn could feel his love and protectiveness for the young Steward grow, for their connection had planted deep roots inside him.

Aragorn said his goodbye to the wizard, who headed into the city in search of Frodo. Aragorn walked briskly back down to finish clearing his tent. The will of Denethor’s madness was intermingling with Faramir’s pain, and Aragorn felt nauseous. He wanted to seek out the Steward, to talk with him. To ask if he’d put together that the fire dreams were memories. But instead he walked up and down the city blocks, bringing item by item into the guest apartment provided to him. Both Merry and Pippin were in the House of Healing with Frodo. Aragorn had thought to join them, but his encounter the palantír had paused those plans.

Step by step, pace by pace, item by item, Aragorn’s mind cleared of the worst of Denethor’s madness. Before he knew it, the light in the sky was waning. When he arrived back in his apartment, he looked around. This was it, the Ranger had come inside the walls. Aragorn looked around, then began using his feet to find a weak floorboard. Once he located one, he pried it up and placed the palantír inside. He wanted to keep it out of sight, and decided he would not use it again. Not until he could ask Elrond about the palantíri lore, to make sure that there was no corrupting force. That Denethor was able to drive a stone to madness worried him.

Aragorn looked to his small pack of clothing, and chose something plain. He would go to the House of Healing to see Frodo, then he and the Hobbits could head to Imrahil’s for the party. He had yet to meet Imrahil’s children, who he was assured had inherited their father’s good cheer. He looked forward to the small celebration, not hiding that he was to be King, but not feeling pressed by the expectations either. Small councils and good company were the right way to start his ascent, and he would hold onto his friends as his pedestal was raised ever higher. Aragorn sheathed his dagger under his tunic, turned to look at Anduril and Arwen’s banner, then left to head down to the sixth level. The night was crisp, and smelled of new growth. A new Dawn springing to life in blossoms. Beautiful, uplifting.

When Aragorn ducked into the House of Healing, the healers greeted him. His healing touch was less needed now, as the most dire cases had either found their way to healing or death. Aragorn headed into the back, and heard what he hoped to hear, boisterous laughter and chatter. The deep voice told him Gandalf was still amongst the Hobbits. At the alien happiness that overcame him, he knew that Merry was amongst them as well.

“Mind if I join this merry bunch?” Aragorn peaked his head into the room.

“Strider!” the voice was Sam’s, who jumped off the bed that contained the quietest of the Hobbits, “Please yes, come in!”

“How are you Frodo,” Aragorn looked at the small and thoughtful hero, eyes bright and yet somehow sad.

“Feeling much improved, thank you Strider,” Frodo smiled, he was holding a mug of some liquid.

“What is in the cup?” Aragorn asked and immediately felt Merry’s delight in his gut.

“Hot chocolate! Éowyn brought it over this afternoon!” Pippin interrupted, a grin across his entire face.

Aragorn smiled,  _ thoughtful _ . Merry studied Aragorn as he smiled, and his smile became grander. Merry then grabbed an empty cup and poured some of the liquid into it, handing it to Aragorn. He looked at Gandalf, who just shrugged.

“Strider, please stop feeling so skeptical about the hot chocolate,” Merry looked (and felt) incensed, “And drink up.”

Gandalf and Pippin both let out a laugh, and Aragorn understood that Merry must have told Pippin about their emotional connection. Aragorn liked being around Merry, he had a lightness to him that lifted Aragorn’s dark thoughts. Faramir’s misery and Denethor’s madness were slowly evaporating away, and the presence of the Hobbits was accelerating the process. Aragorn raised the cup the insistent Hobbit had handed to him, and he drank. The shock of its pleasant bitterness and smooth sweetness enveloped him, and he felt his insides warm. The chocolate had a depth to it, and filled him with comfort. Merry grinned as Aragorn took a second sip.

“You do not need to say anything, for I can feel your delight,” Merry said, “I just wish I could taste your drink!”

“It sounds like an ample supply of hot chocolate will need to become a part of my reign,” Aragorn laughed.

“We’ve requested it from Prince Imrahil for his party, and he has consented!” Pippin exclaimed.

“That is good. Are you all going to come to the party?” Aragorn asked all in the room, but focused his gaze and hope on Gandalf and Frodo. He could feel his happiness when all nodded, and saw Merry wink at him. He knew Gimli and Legolas had also planned on attending, and it warmed him that nearly all of his friends - old and new - would be in the same place.

_ If only Arwen were also here, _ he thought sadly, drawing a look of concern from Merry. He could feel Merry probing his sadness. He would explain later.

Aragorn passed the rest of the afternoon comfortably amongst the Hobbits and Gandalf, each talking about the lands in the north that they now missed. The Hobbits wanted to see the Shire again, but something about Frodo’s demeanor unsettled Aragorn, as if some part of him had faded away from Middle Earth. His discontent was shared by Merry and Gandalf. The ring had taken its toll on the little Hobbit, and yet, there he was, smiling and laughing amongst his friends and kin. It was a marvel that the burden of that evil thing had not sapped away those smiles, that laughter, and the hints of twinkle that came to his face at jokes made by Merry and Pippin. Sam and Frodo had become inseparable, and Aragorn could swear that Sam also was just the slightest bit faded. He wondered if the journey had taken more of a toll than he could intuit. He was grateful that the brave little Hobbits had found their way to Faramir, and hoped that the gentle Ithilien Ranger had eased their journey.

“Look at the time!” it was Pippin, “Isn’t it about time to make our way to Imrahil’s?”

Pippin looked hopefully at Frodo, who had smiled brightly, “Please friends, a Hobbit could use a bit of privacy to change into appropriate attire and have a bath!”

“Oh my, we will go. Merry, Pippin, might I haunt your doorstep? Rumor has it one of you still has some Longbottom leaf,” Gandalf darted up, and with a nod from the Hobbits, they took their leave.

“I am truly grateful to see you in such good health Frodo,” Aragorn smiled into the wrinkles around his eyes.

“Thanks Strider, I will see you at the party.” Frodo replied, “Sam and I will walk down together soon.”

“I have a few patients I would like to check on,” Aragorn replied, “So I will join your walk.”

Aragorn would not say that he would never leave those two brave Hobbits walking through the city unguarded, but the insinuation was there.

“That is very kind,” Frodo understood, “We will call upon you shortly then.”

Aragorn nodded. Frodo had a smile upon his face, but in the waning light, Aragorn could see the shadows in the little Hobbit’s face. And he knew that the faded presence of Frodo was but a ripple on a deeper pool of despair. Aragorn did not know how to help Frodo.  _ Yet another thing I must confide to Arwen _ .

Aragorn left the Hobbits to their privacy, then went to the healers’ station to grab athelas and head to some of the soldiers still suffering from fitful sleep. He had found that he could calm their nightmares simply by crushing a small bowl of athelas next to their beds, and stroking their brows. Aragorn’s rounds did not take him long, but it brought him comfort to watch calm come onto the Gondorian and Rohirric soldiers’ faces in response to his healing touch. As if on cue, two small figures appeared from the east corridor. Sam and Frodo looked elegant in clothes created specifically for them.

“We are ready Strider, lead the way!” Sam spoke, but Aragorn saw that Frodo looked apprehensive.

“Prince Imrahil has invited only a small group my brave Hobbits, and you needs just let me know and I will whisk you away back either to the House, or to the apartment the Steward has outfitted for you,” Aragorn replied.

“Steward… Faramir?” Frodo asked.

“Yes,” Aragorn smiled, catching the shy smile on the Hobbits’ face, “He spoke highly of you. By his leave you are free to wander the city. When I am coronated, you will live by the same decree.”

“I cannot wait to see Faramir again!” Sam exclaimed, and Frodo nodded. The high esteem of the Hobbits only acted to increase Aragorn’s desperation to get Faramir to continue on as his Steward.

“I am sure he feels the same Sam. You’ve both met his fiancée Éowyn?” Aragorn asked as they headed up to the seventh level.

“Why yes, she is as lovely as an elf,” Sam replied, “Merry told us all about her bravery. She was my healer yesterday and today as well, bringing us hot chocolate and checking on the last remnants of my burns.”

“Despite her sorrow, she shines with her own light,” Frodo added, “It was almost as if her sorrow kindled that light inside her.”

Aragorn nearly stopped. He did not know anyone who could think of sorrow like that, yet it fit, almost too well. Éowyn’s fire lit from a lifetime of despair. Faramir’s gentleness was cultivated in a city of stone, the hardest of which was his own father’s heart. The sturdiest trees often grew in the harshest climes. With those last thoughts, the three were at Imrahil’s door. Sounds of laughter were heard inside, and Aragorn swelled knowing that the people on the other side of that door were those who would see him as the man, rather than as the King, or so he hoped.

Aragorn knocked, and the door opened quickly.

“You’ve made it!” Imrahil’s voice was tremulous, “And to you, Sam and Frodo, it is wonderful to meet you. You are our most honored guests, but per very specific instructions of Merry and Pippin, we shall treat you as your brethren treat you.”

Sam laughed at this, “I fear this may mean we will be the subject of pranks Mr. Frodo.”

“Then let us arrive and see what they have in store,” Frodo let out his own chuckle, and the two Hobbits rushed in.

“I’m afraid I have business for you Aragorn,” Imrahil lowered his voice, “The Steward and the Princess of Rohan await you in my solar. Take this hallway and turn left.”

Aragorn followed the instructions, hurrying his footsteps. He thought,  _ hoped _ , that the conversation that was about to happen was Faramir’s acceptance of the Stewardship. Aragorn had already decided what else he would do to pay back the House of Húrin for their faithful Stewardship that had saved Gondor, but he wanted to hear Faramir accept first. He would assure the young man that he had faith that Faramir would never become his father. And here was the moment. He looked less forward to telling Faramir the nature of his memories of fire.

Éowyn and Faramir were sitting speaking quietly to one another, but when he walked in, both looked at him. He could feel both the intensity of their gaze, and the steely resolve of them in his gut. Whatever the conversation was, it was clear that they were united in it. Aragorn shut the door, then strode over to sit in the chair with the Steward and the princess. The closer he got, the icier his gut became. Was Faramir about to say no?

“I can feel your worry Aragorn,” Faramir started, the intensity of his gaze undiminished, “But this conversation, while serious, is optimistic.”

Aragorn could feel the faint smile come to his face even with the gravity he was feeling. He would dive in and assure the young man.

“Faramir, I just want you to know, I have all faith that you will never become your father,” Aragorn started, stumbling over his own words, “I promise. I knew Denethor when he was about your age, and the two of you are night and day.”

“I know Aragorn,” Faramir interjected, “I witnessed his and my brother’s mistakes, and will not to repeat them.”

Aragorn nodded. Something told him that the conversation he thought he was to have had taken a very different turn. He could feel Éowyn’s light - her love, focused on Faramir too. She was willing him forward in his pain.

“I would like the palantír of Minas Tirith buried with my father,” Faramir continued, stern, “And I will accept Stewardship, but you need to know the why, or at least, the part of it. I watched my father fade because of his use of that cursed stone. I watched the madness grow in his mind. I could feel his desperation. I experienced firsthand the consequences, but it also means that it is something I will never forget... Éowyn, Merry and I have also been blessed and cursed with a gift. I do not know if our intermingling of emotions will continue forever, but I believe that if your own use of such a stone starts driving you toward madness, there are few who will notice before it is too late, and fewer still with the power to stop you,” Faramir’s voice was stone, “As your Steward, I will forever be close enough to you to stop you, and ultimately, to save you, and our people.”

Aragorn’s speech was stopped, so profound the shock of the confrontation. He wanted to interrupt, to explain that the stone Denethor used was a close kin to the one Sauron commanded, and that Sauron bent that stone toward coercing Denethor into taking the ring of power. But he remembered the woozy feeling he had that afternoon when the echo of Denethor’s madness still imbued that stone had tried to trap his mind. Aragorn could feel tears rising in his eyes thinking about the thoughtful young man.

“The stone will be buried with your father, and by my command the tomb will never be opened,” Aragorn’s voice wavered, but he drew strength from Éowyn and Faramir’s strength, “I accept your offer to remain Steward. I…”

Aragorn truly had lost the ability to speak. Faramir would sacrifice himself and his happiness because he believed his duty was to protect the realm, and accepted a Stewardship because he understood that he needed to stand up to a King should that King give in to madness, as his father had. Faramir set himself up to relive the very tragedy that nearly drove him into the shadow for his realm, and for his King. Aragorn though could also feel Éowyn’s iron will - willing love into Faramir and defiance toward Aragorn.  _ She will forever dare me to challenge her _ , Aragorn realized,  _ and I find myself revering her the more for knowing this truth. _

“Your fire dreams Faramir…” it was Aragorn’s turn for revelations and healing, “They are memories.”

Aragorn’s gut dropped in congress with Faramir’s, and Éowyn pulled Faramir closer. Aragorn could feel her anger toward him, but also comfort for her beloved.

“How do you know?” Éowyn asked, eyes narrowed, hand stroking Faramir’s neck.

“I went with Mithrandir this afternoon to Rath Dínen, and looked into Denethor’s stone. It is an experience none will ever do again… and I saw… and felt… fire. And I could not move. There were voices around me,” Aragorn was saying it softly, but as he spoke, he could feel the dream welling up inside of him, and knew Faramir to seeing the same vision. Suddenly he felt an overwhelming calm come over him, and realized that Éowyn had willed herself into his mind. Protecting him from the dark visions that he was sharing with Faramir.

“I know,” Faramir held more tightly to Éowyn, “I think I always knew.”  
Aragorn’s gut was ice, and he could feel the young Steward tremble.

“I- I’m sorry Faramir,” Aragorn’s words stumbled out, “I do not want you to choose to be Steward because you feel you need to stand as the final stop to your King’s descent into madness, and … I do not know how to assure you that my path with the palantír is not the same as Denethor’s.”

“You’re right, you can’t say that,” the calm of Éowyn had broken, and was replaced with anger, “You can see all that has pained us Aragorn. And you expect our trust as you use the very vessel that disintegrated the formidable will of Denethor.”

Aragorn had no answer. He was asking for the trust of two and offering little assurance. Éowyn even had reason to mistrust him. It was heartbreaking. Faramir’s despair was nauseating, but Éowyn’s defiance counterbalanced it.

“What.. can I do?” Aragorn asked, looking directly at Éowyn.

Éowyn paused, surprised at his question, but then he felt her contemplation. She looked into the distance for a moment, then made eye contact. Aragorn swore he could see the light and the fire behind her eyes.

“Do you need to use such a stone in private?” Éowyn asked.

_ Yes _ , was what he wanted to answer, but was that true? Most assuredly not. He was speaking to two whom he had inadvertently violated the minds of, and was about to ask for privacy because he wanted to gaze upon his beloved Arwen alone. Éowyn seemed to read all that was going through his mind, and he noticed that Faramir’s gaze was upon him too. Éowyn’s love had pulled Faramir away from his fire visions.

“I suppose not,” Aragorn admitted.

“Then, unless it is the most dire of emergencies, another should be in your presence as you use the stone,” Éowyn’s words were resolute, “One you trust, and one who will be able to decipher even the very first signs of your madness.”

Aragorn realized Éowyn was not suggesting it always be Faramir. She was suggesting it could be Arwen too, or it could be her. Aragorn looked at her, and saw that Faramir shared her resolve.

“I watched my own father go mad over that stone,” Faramir now spoke, “It took a long time. And though I know you as my King, I have known you but a month. You may be the blood of Elendil, but even the strongest of wills can be bent over time and with patience.”

Faramir was right. And so was Éowyn.

“If there were no stone, would you still want to be Steward?” Aragorn asked, and hoped to hear Faramir’s honesty.

“If this is the way I can best serve my people, yes,” Faramir answered.

In that moment, Aragorn felt Éowyn’s hope, and he realized she was his ally. A furtive looked passed between them.

“I will not lie, there is little I want more than to have you - both of you - by my side as my advisors,” Aragorn spilled his heart, “Save for the arrival of my beloved Arwen.”

“Would you consider the appointment of Éowyn as ambassador of Rohan?” Faramir asked, and Aragorn felt Éowyn’s gut lurch, but then he could feel their joint hope.

_ They truly have been speaking of all of this _ , Aragorn realized. Éowyn. Princess of Rohan,  _ Princess of Ithilien _ , Ambassador to Rohan.

“I could see none better, honestly,” Aragorn answered, “It is your’s should you want it… ...ambassadors?”

“An idea of Imrahil’s,” Faramir let the shyest of smiles come on his face, “Permanent envoys, with the power to speak for their Kings. Imrahil asked to be ambassador to Rohan, and there is no other so qualified as Éowyn for the role in Gondor.”

Éowyn flushed, and Aragorn wanted to laugh. How foolish he had been to ever underestimate her, and now here she was, underestimating herself.

“If Éomer agrees, so do I. But still you have not given me an answer from your heart Faramir,” Aragorn pleaded, “I would not trap you in a role that you did not want.”

There it was, the fear. The panic. It was Faramir’s. Aragorn did not want to say it yet, for fear that Faramir’s apprehension was not just based on being walled inside the white city.

Faramir sighed, “I have told you that I will be Steward, because I see it as essential, for you, for me, for our realm. But that does not remove my desire to return to Ithilien.”

“Is that your only concern?” Aragorn knew that the rising hope in his gut was exposing him. Both Éowyn and Faramir were studying him, knowing that there was motive to the question.

“Not my only…” Faramir answered carefully.

“I can assure you of two things Faramir,” Aragorn answered, “The first is that I will forever call you my friend, and consider our connection more blessing than curse. Never will I let you fall as your father did.”

“Neither will I,” Éowyn interrupted, and pulled Faramir closer. Aragorn filled with their love.

“The second is…” Aragorn breathed in, gathering in his delight to say the next words, “Is that I feel I owe you and your family more than you can imagine for staying strong against the shadow even as Arnor fell. The House of Húrin deserves to return to their ancestral lands in Emyn Arnen, and they deserve the proper title with it. So Steward or no, my new  _ Prince _ of Ithilien will return to those fair lands to tame them.”

Aragorn felt a surge of surprise and joy. Faramir understood what he was saying. But Aragorn realized that the joy was not only Faramir’s, but was shared amongst the three of them. It was pure and it was high. Aragorn wanted to close his eyes and linger in that moment.

“Prince of Ithilien,” Faramir’s eyes had started twinkling, “Min elskede, it appears that my title now matches your’s.”

Éowyn laughed and pulled Faramir in for a hug. Their joy overflowed, as did their love, and Aragorn bathed in it too. In that moment, the love between them was palpable. Faramir then stood and strode to Aragorn, then pulled him in for his own tight hug.

“Thank you,” Faramir whispered, and he and Aragorn shared their tears of joy, “I would have accepted Stewardship whether you granted my request for Ithilien or no.”

“And I would have made you prince whether you accepted my request that you remained Steward or no,” Aragorn replied, and their tears streamed freely. A look over at Éowyn showed that their emotions had also caught her. “Prince of Ithilien and Steward of Gondor, and Princess of Rohan and Ambassador of Rohan, thank you.”

“Before we let these emotions overcome us, do not forget our deal,” Éowyn had swallowed their joy, and come over to place her hand in Faramir’s, “To build and keep trust Aragorn, your palantír.”

Aragorn looked at the sternness and steadiness in Éowyn’s eyes, and felt her protectiveness. Trust. He did not have theirs yet, and yet they had his. She had forgiven, but she was not ready to fall into the moment. He smiled. He would earn their trust, and perhaps the routine of gazing in a palantír only with a companion would protect him from the stone’s power, even as he was sure he would always have the will to control it.

“Never will I use it out of your, Faramir, or Arwen’s presence,” Aragorn took Éowyn’s hand, to seal the promise, “Until the day comes that all three of you agree that it is unneeded. And if never should that day come, so will I always keep one in my presence as I use it.”

Faramir and Éowyn shared a look, and nodded. He could feel their relief, and he could feel the trust in him building the slightest bit in that moment.

“One more thing,” Éowyn smiled at him now, and he could feel amusement and happiness return to her, “When you return my uncle to Rohan to be buried with his forebears, that is when Faramir and I will be married.”

Aragorn nearly laughed at the seriousness of her voice with such a small request. But he could feel both of their hope and fear, and he understood to them, nothing about their request was in jest.  _ If any two on Middle Earth deserve their happiness and each other, it is these two _ . He saw the dark dreams that woke them in the night then, and he understood. Each day they delayed their wedding was a day that the nightmares that robbed their sleep chipped away at them. A wedding gave them the ability to heal and protect one another when the nightmares attacked their minds. He would not delay them even a second more than he had to.  _ Rohan _ , Aragorn thought,  _ the land giving away it’s fairest jewel, and… its bravest warrior. _

“Yes,” Aragorn said, “I would not delay your bliss, nor your healing.”

“This leaves only my need to speak to my brother,” Éowyn whispered to them both, “Please don’t yet say anything. Éomer would not be pleased to find that a conspiracy was hatched under his nose.”

“Would he expect anything less from you min elskede?” the light Faramir sometimes shone was coming back as he looked upon Éowyn. Aragorn could feel Faramir’s love swell.

“My lips are sealed until you’ve given me a sign they need not be,” Aragorn said, “Though this seems a great place to celebrate the new Prince of Ithilien and continuing Steward of Gondor.”

Aragorn’s chest had filled with all of their joy. The outcome was more than he could have hoped for, even as he was so surprised by their concern about his use of the palantír.  _ He watched his own father crumble because of that stone, _ Aragorn thought,  _ and their concern is valid. _ He had been grateful Gandalf had been there with him when he tried to look into Denethor’s stone.

He was no longer unbound. He had an entire realm under his care now. He could not do it alone, and every day he was reminded he had support. Gazing into the palantír was something that Aragorn the Ranger could risk, but to risk the mind of King Elessar was to risk the entirety of the realm. That he had advisors who understood that, even as he himself had not, was a blessing beyond Arda. Aragorn pulled both Faramir and Éowyn in for a hug.

“Thank you,” Aragorn whispered to them both, “Now, let us go to the rest of our friends to celebrate this good news, and to toast to the bravery of Hobbits, who have given us the gift of the new Dawn. I should hope we have more talks like this one, and am blessed by the Valar to have advisors like you.”

Aragorn could feel their hope, intermingled with his own. Then, all turned to head into the courtyard to see the feast and friends that Imrahil had brought together. It was time to celebrate princes and ambassadors, weddings and bravery, but mostly, friends.


	35. Éomer 7

The crash of furniture had pulled Éomer out of his apartment so fast he was not aware that he had grabbed his sword on the way out. He was sure that this was it, that something had happened to his sister  _ again _ and he would be damned if he was not there to protect her this time. Then at the look on his sister’s face, he knew she had been the one to throw a chair out the window. A chair? Horsehair indeed,  _ from a particular part of the horse _ . Éomer knew it now. Éowyn found love. Éowyn would never need his protection again. Faramir would protect her, and she could protect herself. She also protected those she loved. She would die for Faramir, as she was prepared to die to save Éomer from the Nazgûl.

Éomer had almost refused Faramir’s offer of a scribe, insisting on writing all letters himself, but Éowyn was right. He could not do everything. Imrahil had suggested he personally write the letters out for his éored. Éomer would do that. And Legolas had already made a clay seal of Rohan for Éomer, the young King. The unexpected King. The unprepared King. Éowyn would have made an extraordinary Queen had Éomer fallen. He longed for her to be with him as he learned to be the King he was supposed to be. But she deserved her happiness, and he would always have her heart. She just would not be by his side. A messenger had come to his door to deliver the clay seal, stacks and stacks of parchment, and vials of ink. Éomer had 40 letters to write. He would write them all.

Éomer sat down, looked at the light out the window, and got to work. He would not leave that table until all 40 were written. He would not cry until all 40 were written. First, Gamling. Éomer placed pen to paper and began writing. He wrote of Gamling’s bravery, of the fact that Gamling sacrificed himself for his King (Aragorn had told him). Éomer promised his wife and children that they would forever be taken care of in Rohan, and would be granted a special audience with the King should they desire it. Éomer could feel the tears in his chest, he swallowed them down. 39 to go.. Then 38… 37… 36...

He thought the letters would get easier, and so they did, but they also became harder. He could see their faces. He could see the faces of their children. He could see their deaths. Gondor’s generosity felt cheap compared to their lives. Éomer kept reminding himself that Gondor  _ needed _ Rohan, and Gondor had protected Rohan from the encroaching of Sauron for hundreds of years. He kept repeating it to himself. It eased his grief. 28… 27… 26… Just as Éomer thought he would break, a light knock came on his door.  _ Éowyn? _

Éomer stood and opened the door, expecting the golden light of his sister. It was not Éowyn. Gray thoughtful eyes, braided curly hair, a gray dress that did not make her beauty any less noticeable…  _ Lothíriel _ .

“I brought you fruit and mead from the market,” Lothíriel held a basket out to Éomer, who had not been able to wipe the stunned look from his face. Lothíriel smiled brightly, “Perhaps a cloth too, you have ink smudged all over your cheeks.”

Éomer tried to suppress the blush,  _ of course _ she called on him when he was disheveled. He nearly wanted to turn her away and walk back to his dark table and his grief, but more, he wanted her to stay. Lothíriel’s eyes had not left his, and he saw them change from amusement to concern.

“My father said you were discussing the Book of the Dead today,” her voice softened and she looked at the table behind Éomer, “And Éowyn told me you were writing letters to the families of your men, and might need company.”

Éomer felt as if Éowyn had hugged him through Lothíriel’s words.

“So many died to save me, and now it is up to me to tell their families,” Éomer could feel the tears crawling slowly up the back of his throat. He was not sure he was ready to show such weakness with her.

“I would not ask you divide your writing, my father is writing to the families of his fallen Knights as we speak, and Faramir will be writing personally to the families of his fallen Rangers,” Lothíriel was studying Éomer, and had walked in and put the basket down in his sitting room, “But perhaps I could keep you company? You could tell me one fine thing about each of these men, and it will be the first thing I have heard of them them, then all my memories of them will be good. I can also roll them and stamp your seal upon them, to save you the labor.”

Lothíriel looked hopeful. And Éomer wanted her there, but… he couldn’t. He would be alone with her. He would not sully her reputation. He was not able to keep the flapping tongues away from his sister, but he would not do this, not to one he dared to believe he could love as much as he loved Éowyn.

“It would not be proper to be alone with me,” Éomer said the words and could hear his own sharp disappointment.

“Of all the things I had been taught of Rohan, the genteel nature of its King was one that I missed,” Lothíriel spoke gently, and Éomer thought he saw something twinkle in her eyes, he  _ hoped _ he saw that twinkle, “Come and let us crash my cousin’s. He is with my father, and we could sit in the Steward’s garden together, fully in view of his staff. We will have privacy, but we will also be watched by observant eyes.”

Had Lothíriel thought of that on the spot?  _ Likely _ , he thought,  _ you will be forever blessed and cursed to be around women with wits far surpassing your own _ .

“Yes,” Éomer assented, “Lead on.”

Lothíriel smiled, gently picked up Éomer’s parchments, ink, wax, and seal, and placed them atop the cloth of her basket. Éomer could smell the strawberries hiding beneath the cloth. He wanted to feed Lothíriel wild strawberries in early spring in the Eastfold. Then he remembered a conversation from earlier…

“I heard a curious story about you,” Éomer said the words, and Lothíriel’s gaze pierced him, he should know better than to try to speak with any authority on intrigue, “That when you were young, you cut your hair off with a dagger.”

Lothíriel’s cheeks turned red, and she looked away from him, a smile on her face, “I did not like being excluded from my brothers’ games.”

“My sister braids her hair like an Elven warrior, and rode to war with a helm and shield,” Éomer stuttered, he wasn’t explaining himself very well, “I sparred with her, but I never treated her as an equal. After her duel with the Wraith, I will never make that mistake again with her. With anyone...”  
What Éomer was saying was  _ I will never underestimate you. _

Lothíriel’s eyes narrowed, and Éomer suspected she was reading his mind. They walked in silence the rest of the short way to the Steward’s House. The broken chair had been cleaned up, but still Éomer grinned, remembering the mischief in his sister’s eyes, and the befuddlement of the Steward. Lothíriel rapped on the white door, much harder than she had when she called upon him.

“What brings you to our door, dear Princess?” Faramir’s butler answered, and smiled brightly at Lothíriel. Clearly she had caught the butler’s heart too.

“Good afternoon Maravel,” Lothíriel put on a bright smile, “We were hoping to haunt the Steward’s garden while he was away? The King of Rohan and I have errands and need fresh air, and our tasks need to be away from wandering eyes.”

Maravel laughed, “Your family’s?”

Lothíriel scoffed, “Not this time. Éomer King needs to write to the families of his fallen Knights and could use a private space. I have offered him help.”

“I have orders to never refuse the Princess of Dol Amroth,” Maravel replied, and let them both in.

Lothíriel glided through the door and into the garden. Éomer watched her. He watched the way she moved, the way her dark braid swayed with the motions of her feet. He followed Lothíriel into the garden, sitting across from her at the table. Somehow in that place, with her, crying and grieving for his éored, for his  _ friends _ , didn’t seem so scary. He was safe.

Lothíriel laid the ink and parchment before Éomer, finally lifting the list of the dead and handing it gently to him. She then took from her basket the strawberries, bread, honey, and the jug of mead.

“Who is your next brave Knight?” Lothíriel smiled gently.

“Dúnhere,”Éomer replied gravely, “Sister-son to my brave Erkenbrand. He was still a boy.”  
The tears had started to rise again.

“Tell me your favorite thing about him,” Lothíriel’s voice was quiet and soothing, bathing Éomer in warmth.

“He had a habit of nearly getting kicked by the horses,” Éomer smiled, “We always said that one day he would, and that would be the day he learned to stop being unwary near a horse’s behind.”

Unbidden, a laugh came to Éomer’s throat. All needed to be watchful of horse’s arses. Especially Faramir. Lothíriel saw his small memory.

“Whatever brought that laugh was not from Dúnhere,” she spoke, “And it brought you joy in a moment of grief. I must know.”

“Rohan must send a fine horsehair chair to Gondor, to repay my sister’s debt,” Éomer groaned, but he could not hide his amusement, “For some reason, she threw a chair out Faramir’s window. So I called her a horse’s arse.”

Lothíriel let out a rapturous laugh. It had the same quality as Imrahil’s voice.

“You called Éowyn a horse’s arse for destroying Denethor’s chair?” tears were in Lothíriel’s eyes.

“Well… not quite. But Éowyn knew what I meant,” Éomer blushed a bit, he  _ did _ call the Princess of Rohan a horse’s arse, to Aragorn no less, “And you don’t throw people’s chairs out the window unless you want your brother to call you one.”

Lothíriel had not stopped laughing, “I saw my cousin after that incident. He seems utterly delighted by the whole thing. I do hope that you will find the finest horsehair in the land just so that the joke becomes eternal.”

Éomer smiled. He was among friends, even as a new King, even in Gondor. It would always be okay still to treat the future wife of the Steward like he had always treated his little sister. Perhaps no more toads in her bed, but at least they would always be able to joke. Albeit subtly.

Éomer returned his pen to paper and wrote with warmth to Dúnhere’s family. The grief was still present, but he felt cleansed. Lothíriel asked for a small story of every knight in turn, and Éomer found it easier and easier to speak of them. Writing got easier, and so did grieving. The gravitas was not lost, but the hopelessness was gone. Before he knew it, they were finished. Éomer gave the letters to Maravel, who passed them onto the messengers heading toward Rohan. All letters had been sealed expertly by Lothírie. They had eaten all of Lothíriel’s food, and they’d raided Faramir’s kitchen. They were practically Hobbits.

“Lothíriel, thank you,” Éomer said, “You made a dark and hard task fill with light.”  
Éomer blushed as he said it. But it was true.  _ Honest _ .

“You are welcome, Éomer King,” Lothíriel smiled back. Éomer took her hand, and placed the gentle, lingering kiss upon it.

“Now Princess, I must go,” Éomer smiled sheepishly, “I needs must have a bath before your Uncle’s party. I will see you soon.”

“I look forward to it,” Lothíriel replied, and pressed the lightest of kisses on Éomer’s cheek.

Lothíriel smiled, bid farewell to Maravel, and was out the door. Éomer looked at the table, the grin coming to his face. He would tell Faramir at the party of the wine and kitchen raid. He did feel it was proper payback for stealing his sister. But even as he thought of Faramir and Éowyn, his mind kept returning to Lothíriel. He did not think he would feel safe after his father died. But she made him feel it. Safe.

Éomer bathed slowly. When he arose, he looked at his wardrobe and sighed at its plainness. He wanted to be regal. He wanted to be high and noble, so that when she looked upon him, she saw a King. He would ask Éowyn do braid his hair after the high Elven lords...

No. That was not him. He would braid his own hair, and he would wear a tunic fitting his station, but utterly familiar _. _ That was who he was. That was  _ honest _ .

The light was nearly gone from the sky. It was time. He would meet Frodo and Sam. He would get to watch Lothíriel and Éowyn interact. He may even get to challenge Faramir to spar again, for his silence over the previous night’s activities.

Éomer walked to the door of Imrahil’s. No longer would he pause uncertainly at the door. Éomer could hear laughing voices, including the musical tinkle of Lothíriel. He knocked on the door. Heavy footsteps approached, and the door opened to a slightly red-cheeked Prince Imrahil.

“Éomer!” Imrahil clapped him on the back, “We are in the garden.”

Éomer nodded and followed Imrahil in. In the garden, Éomer saw Lothíriel immediately. She was in the corner playing chess with Merry. They were speaking quietly and laughing.  _ You’re hopeless, _ he thought,  _ you will always seek her out _ . Éomer decided to first head to the table, where he grabbed turkey and wine. He saw Legolas and Gimli, and made his way to them.

“If it isn’t my favorite dwarf and favorite elf,” Éomer grinned, “Where is Aragorn?”

“He arrived shortly before we did, but was beckoned upstairs,” Gimli replied.

Éomer then realized he saw neither Faramir nor his sister in the garden. He wondered at that. Why he was not also invited to such a meeting? There was something strange between those three…

“Elbereth smiles upon us this night,” Legolas was looking intently at Lothíriel, and at  _ him. _ He could feel heat coming into his cheeks.

Éomer coughed, “Gimli, can you tell me why my sister needed to use the forge?”

Gimli laughed, both at Éomer’s abrupt change of subject, but also at whatever it was Éowyn had planned, “Cleansing spirits Éomer King.”

Dwarfs were near as insufferable as elves.

“The old ring of the Steward will become a seal, much better suited to the new Steward,” Gimli had leaned in to Éomer’s ear, “Between Legolas and I, we will see it done.”

Éomer nodded, so that was what his sister had been up to.

“It will be ready for Éowyn in about a week,” Legolas smiled, “She has eyes keen as an elf’s where she sees pain.”

Éomer smiled. That was true. Éowyn always gravitated toward those who were pained to help them. She always took care of him. So much so that he did not know how much pain she herself was in. For all that time. He hoped that in the new age, he would never close his eyes again. He would never underestimate a woman again. Éomer chanced a glance over at Lothíriel. Right as he had done it, she looked up and caught his eyes. She smiled. Éomer blushed, but also smiled back, as if her eyes had called the smile from him. Éomer walked to them.

“I see you’ve met my squire, soon to be Knight, of the Riddermark,” Éomer said as he approached, and Merry rushed to stand.

“Good evening Éomer King,” Merry bowed, a smile on his red face. Éomer then saw the mug of ale that was half gone.

“Merry was telling me of a game of spoons,” Lothíriel’s smile was bright, mischievous, “The stakes are quite high.”

“I declare a double or nothing rematch!” the booming voice of Imrahil broke in.

Lothíriel laughed musically, “Depends on the stakes!”

“A bag of Westfold truffles, a bundle of Longbottom leaf, salted sweetfish from the Brandywine, a bushel of wild strawberries, and your father put up a bucket of Amroth oysters,” Éomer replied, he could feel his grin.

Lothíriel nodded intently, “I’m in.”

“We must wait for Aragorn, Faramir, and Éowyn to finish their business,” Imrahil replied, “Seeing Éowyn wear that spoon when Aragorn came to call…!”

Imrahil and Merry both burst out laughing. Éomer grinned as well, then shrugged sympathetically at Lothíriel, clearly unhappy about being left out of the jest.

“Perhaps we should wait for a moment where the chances of glory in the face of embarrassment are greater,” Lothíriel exclaimed, “For now we are amongst friends. Ada -  _ please _ let me plan!”

Éomer did not like the look in Lothíriel’s eyes, as if she was already in the midst of planning a grand scheme, but he was relieved they would not wear spoons that night. As if their laughter called, Éomer felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, then turned around to see that Éowyn and Faramir had returned to the party.

“Laughter at my expense brother?” Éowyn smiled, clearly unabashed.

“At Lord Aragorn’s expense, I reckon,” grinned Imrahil, “Who has returned! I needs must speak with him.”

“Brother, may I have a word?” Éowyn spoke softly, and Éomer saw that Faramir’s hands were fidgeting.

“Of course,” Éomer replied, shot a look at Lothíriel, who winked at him, and followed his sister to another corner of the garden. Faramir seated himself next to the chess players, watching their game. But he betrayed his worry by periodically looking up hopefully at Éowyn. But Faramir was not who Éomer’s followed at the chess board...

“If you continue to have clandestine meetings all night, you will never enjoy the party,” Éomer was still looking at Lothíriel. Éowyn’s smile of understanding brought the blush to Éomer’s cheeks. Again.

“My hope is that this need not be a long conversation,” Éowyn’s voice was serious. It scared Éomer.

“Ask sister,” Éomer thought to joke, but something in Éowyn’s tone stayed his jest.

“Two things. First is Faramir and I would like to be married at the return of our uncle to Rohan,” Éowyn had put her hand on Éomer’s, “Please say yes.”

Éomer wanted to say no, it was too soon. He wanted to tell her how much he needed her to help him lead Rohan. That if she married Faramir, then it was all up to him. Alone. In that moment, Éomer felt a loneliness come over him. He was scared of losing her, of failing his people. But he could not refuse her for his own fear. The hope in Éowyn’s eyes stilled his thoughts. He would not refuse her this, her deepest joy.

“Yes,” Éomer said the words, “The Rohirrim deserve a celebration of love and hope after all this grief. Seeing you happy with the Steward of Gondor… yes.”

“We will stay in Rohan as long as you need us,” Éowyn squeezed Éomer’s hand. She had read his worry. She always knew.

“I’m scared Éowyn,” Éomer’s honesty startled even him, “I was meant to be a soldier, not a King.”

Éowyn pulled Éomer in for a hug, “None of us were meant to be what we now are. But we are. You are a good King, and you have the makings of a great King. Not least because you listen to your wise sister.”

Éomer laughed. He knew she had said it to make him laugh, but her words were also true.

“What will I do without you?” Éomer pleaded.

“You will turn to other trusted advisors. I believe Imrahil will ask you tonight if he could become a permanent fixture in your court, as ambassador to Gondor,” Éowyn’s eyes twinkled, “And I will always come when you need me.”

Éomer looked for jest in Éowyn’s statement, but knew there was none. Imrahil intended to remain in Rohan with him. He wondered if that meant that so too would Lothíriel. As the blush rose in his face, so did a smile. Éowyn was smiling too; she always knew what he was thinking.

“You said there was a second thing,” Éomer was worried what the second one would be.

“I would like to serve a similar role,” Éowyn had exhaled, clearly she was less worried about this request, “To be Rohan’s ambassador in Gondor.”

“Yes!” the words escaped Éomer before he had even finished hearing her request, “Sister, that is perfect! Rohan will never go wanting when its ambassador has brought both its King and Steward to heel!”

Éowyn laughed so loud that the rest of the party looked up at her. Aragorn in particular. A silent signal passed between his sister and Aragorn, then also Faramir.  All of a sudden, Aragorn had stepped forward, and Faramir stood too.

Éowyn took Éomer’s hand and whispered, “The rest is about to become clear brother.”

“To my dearest of friends, both old and new, I have an announcement,” Aragorn spoke, “Though this will not be made official until I am crowned, I have been blessed tonight. For tonight, my wish that Faramir and his House would remain Stewards even after I am King has been granted. Additionally, the House of Húrin will be returning to its seat in Emyn Arnen, with the Prince of Ithilien, and my Steward, at its helm.”

Everyone looked to Faramir, who carried a thoughtful smile. Éomer felt Éowyn squeeze his hand tightly. So that was what they were speaking about. They had talked with Aragorn before they talked with him, to make sure everything was in place. It felt conspiratorial, then Éomer realized that Éowyn knew his mind so well that she did not need to ask him to know his answers. She would make a fine ambassador. Éomer cleared his throat. Faramir would be sharing the spotlight.

“One more thing,” Éomer spoke clearly, and tried to ignore the harsh look his sister was giving him, “Éowyn will be the vessel of Rohan in Gondor. She will be ambassador, and will speak for me. I hope you like Éowyn on council Aragorn!”

Imrahil and Faramir started to laugh. Éomer had started to wonder just how deep the scheme had run. He did not care. Éowyn was the right person for the role. He had nodded to Aragorn, who nodded back.

“A toast,” Aragorn raised a glass, “To the brave men and women who gave their lives to give us this moment, to the Hobbits who delivered us from evil, and to those who will help us write our bright future.”

“Hear hear,” the call was harmonious from all participants.

Faramir stood, and strode over to Éomer and Éowyn. He looked hopeful, but also anxious.

“Don’t worry, I said yes to all my sister’s requests,” Éomer tried to scowl, but his smile was obvious, “Be ready for a lifetime of horsehair.”

Éowyn and Faramir both laughed. Then Faramir pulled Éomer in for a tight hug, “Thank you brother.”

Éomer nodded, “I should like to take more sparring practice with you. Perhaps just after you wake up from your slumber.”

“I reckon that as your skill increases, so too will the number of my bruises,” Faramir smiled mildly.

“I reckon so, yes,” Éomer knew he was not being intimidating, but yes, he liked making sure that Faramir understood that he was marrying Éomer’s beloved baby sister.

“Min elskede, I will just have to double my healing,” Éowyn said it to Faramir, but she was looking at Éomer. He and Faramir both turned slightly redder, understanding her intimation.

“Then I should expect a similar service then sister,” Éomer retorted, but he regretted it immediately.

“Lothíriel, have you ever tried your hand at the healing arts?” Éowyn called over to the chess match.

Lothíriel moved one last piece, checkmating Merry, then strolled over to their crew, Merry in tow.

“I had not, I compose and paint,” Lothíriel replied, “Might you teach me the basics?”

Éowyn was still grinning at the color she had made Éomer turn. Éomer did not like it.

“We can practice on my brother and your cousin,” Éowyn replied, she was enjoying herself too much, “Apparently when they spar, they enjoy putting dents into one another.”

Lothíriel smiled, but her cheeks had turned nearly as red as Éomer’s face. She shot him a glance.

“I heard you may also be willing to teach me swordplay?” Lothíriel looked at Éowyn intently.

“I can teach you,” the words came from Éomer’s mouth unbidden. He felt his face become a deeper shade of red.

Éowyn smiled, “Éomer taught me my skill. He is an excellent teacher.”

Lothíriel smiled brightly, a smile that radiated from her. Yes. Éomer would teach her to spar, to protect her. He had given that gift to his sister. For Lothíriel, he would teach her so well that if any man ever tried to take her, she could kill him.

“I have one piece of business to attend to, then we can speak of what you want to learn,” Éomer spoke authoritatively, even as he continued to blush.

He knew he wanted Lothíriel to be his wife. He knew he would woo her, and he would take the first steps toward that today. Éomer walked over to Imrahil.

“If you want to be ambassador to Rohan, it is yours,” Éomer spoke seriously, but he could hear the hope in his voice, “I will set up a quarters befitting your title when I return to Edoras.”

Imrahil smiled nearly as brightly as when Sauron’s power broke.

“As long as Aragorn approves, I accept,” Imrahil replied, his eyes twinkling with joy.

“He will consent,” Éomer replied, he  _ knew _ that was where Imrahil belonged, “And your family. Let them visit and see if the rolling hills and mountain air are… acceptable.”

Imrahil nodded, he understood.

“Oh, and please invite your family to accompany my uncle on his last ride,” Éomer spoke, “We will have a Rohirric wedding hand in hand with a funeral. In Rohan, celebration and joy often go hand in hand with grief.”

Imrahil laughed, “I am glad my nephew took my advice.”

“So… this was all your doing?” Éomer asked, more amused than upset, “My sister has a lot to teach me in a much shorter time than I thought.”

“Well, now that you’ve appointed me ambassador, so too will I be there. And I daresay my daughter might want to explore Rohan. She has the insight and wits of her cousin,” Imrahil replied, “You are a good man, and have the makings of a great King.”

“Let us speak no more of this tonight,” Éomer felt the blood in his face, “We have far too much to celebrate to continue discussing these things any further.”

Imrahil nodded, still smiling brightly, then headed to speak with Aragorn. Éomer suspected he knew what about. Éomer stood quietly for a while, breathing in the air of the garden. He listened to the sound of his friends’ voices. To the laughter of Hobbits and men and dwarves. He then turned to see Lothíriel standing with Éowyn and Faramir. He walked back to them. This. Those conversations, those jokes, the laughter, that was his future. Every person in that garden would make sure that he was a good King, perhaps even a great King.

Everything was changing. No, everything  _ had _ changed. Éowyn was always destined to leave him, or him her, and she was doing so in bliss, with a man who had won her heart by seeing and loving the whole of her. Éomer would forever be proud to call Faramir brother. And Lothíriel, a woman Éomer dreamed about, whose voice was music in his ears, whose words wove a sense of wonder in him. He hoped that the fresh air, green grass and mountains of Rohan would feel home to a jewel of the sea, and that he would get to call her wife. Éomer breathed in and took in the moment. With friends around him, he welcomed the fresh beginnings of the new Dawn.


	36. Éowyn 9

**_4 weeks later: 2 days before coronation.  
_ ** “Ioreth, I need another splint,” Éowyn gently reset the bones as the worker grimaced, “Just a few more seconds, and I will be done!”

The man looked skeptical, but nodded. Éowyn smiled. She wanted to tell him that his injury was simple, that he would be well in no time, but the pain on his face told her that her cheery words would not be appreciated.

“You fell from the second level to the first you say?” Ioreth had walked over and passed Éowyn a splint. Ioreth had long stopped needing to shadow Éowyn, who’d finished much of her coursework in record time.

“Was finishing up repairing a wall that took a trebuchet blast and just missed my step,” the grimacing man replied.

“You will need to rest your arm for at least a week,” Éowyn commanded the man, “Then another couple of months of gentle use before it will be ready for the type of hard labor you were doing before…”

“But.. what will I do Lady Éowyn?” the man pleaded, “I must feed my family.”

“I will ask the Steward if you can serve temporarily as a page,” Éowyn replied, she knew Faramir had need of pages for the plethora of honored guests appearing from all ends of Middle Earth, “It does not pay quite as well as your skilled labor, but enough to make ends meet while you heal.”

“Thank you Lady,” the worker’s features were still pained, but the pain had lessened, simply knowing that his injury would not cause his family to starve. Éowyn squeezed his good hand, and moved to get up.

“Ioreth, any more for today?” Éowyn called over.

“You are free,” Ioreth walked to Éowyn, “From your first to your last day with us, you have been a blessing my dear girl. Please think of us in Rohan, and when you have married our beloved Steward.”

Éowyn smiled brightly, “Ioreth, I shall return! I am not yet finished with my apprenticeship and will see it through. I also plan to bring with me all Rohirric remedies, so we can open the exchange of knowledge and ideas.”

“Yes, well…” Ioreth pulled Éowyn in for an iron hug, “We will miss you all the same. You have healing hands, and we have been blessed to see you heal, then shine.”

“One more thing,” Ioreth whispered, “The healers… well, the ladies… chipped in to get you something. Don’t open it until you are alone.”

Ioreth placed a small brown package in Éowyn’s hand, then grinned, “It is a wedding gift.”

“Thank you Ioreth, for everything. You do not know how much you all have meant to me,” Éowyn could feel a tear in her eye, as she fingered at the small package in her hands, “And I promise, I will return to you - to this place.”

The House of Healing had become her home, nearly more dear to her than Rohan. Leaving the healers who had opened their hearts to her, and to her patients, whom she had watched recover was bittersweet. Éowyn turned to the Warden’s office, and headed in.

“Today is my last day Warden,” Éowyn smiled serenely at the man who’d introduced her to Faramir, “But expect me back, a fount of Rohirric healing knowledge, ready to complete my studies.”

The Warden wore an enormous grin, “Éowyn, you have already exceeded all expectations. You’ve read near every book on healing that Gondor can provide, and proven yourself to be adept at healing all but the most difficult cases. You are no apprentice, even as your apprenticeship is required to continue for two more years.”

Éowyn blushed at the Warden’s compliment, “I… just wanted to make sure you understood, today is not the last. I may return happily wed to the Steward, but still I will be a healer.”

“I don’t doubt it,” the Warden replied, “And neither did Faramir. He came by this morning to ask for the last books of your studies to be copied, so you can bring them with you to Rohan if you desire.”

Éowyn beamed. _Her soon-to-be husband_. Éowyn walked to the Warden, and squeezed his hand.

“The day you denied me my wish for death is the day you saved my life Warden,” Éowyn sniffled, “Thank you for helping me find meaning to it as well.”

When she looked closely at the Warden’s eyes, she saw a tear there too. She would miss this place, but she knew she would be back. A parting, but for a short time.

“Tell King Elessar that he often mixes too many crushed dandelions into his soothing salve,” Éowyn broke the heavy moment, “It makes the patients more euphoric than is desired. Tell him Éowyn said so”

The Warden laughed, “So I shall.”

With that last moment, Éowyn let go of the Warden’s hand, and left the House of Healing. When she returned to finish her apprenticeship, so much would be changed. There would be a King of Gondor again. Her big brother would be the King of Rohan. And she would be a woman wed. Faramir would be her’s. She felt her pace quicken as she walked toward her apartment. She would take a bath, then head to the Steward’s.

In her bath, Éowyn reflected on the remarkable month.

Four weeks in each other’s presence had set a routine. Every night, their candles shone for each other, a sign of love. Every night, Faramir was there. He had kept his promise never to sleep, and guarded over Éowyn in her slumber. Every afternoon, she returned the favor.

There were times she’d been haunted by particularly horrific nightmares, crying out into the night as she was pulled underwater by gauntleted hands, or heard a key finally unbolt her lock, letting in the wolf. But each time such a dream came to consume her, a gentle light illuminated her path away from the shadows. Faramir’s light. Upon waking, she always felt his hand stroking her brow, whispering to her, “it is a dream min elskede. I am here. I love you.” She would feel his warmth against her, hear his heartbeat, run her hands through the hair of his chest; the overwhelming power of his love returned her to safety. The nightmares never returned when she resettled into slumber. Faramir’s light guarded over her, and not since she was a child had she rested so peacefully.

Their closeness abed _had_ led to a strain, but it was the strain against knowing what bliss awaited them when their careful control could be let go. Éomer did not approve of Faramir’s nightly visits, but he had long since given up trying to stop them. Perhaps because he knew not to fight his sister (though Éomer’s energy in sparring the Steward had gained intensity). Éowyn was also sure that Éomer’s silence was because he recognized the change that Faramir’s presence had had on her. She laughed more. She smiled. She breathed in the fresh air and felt life in her lungs and through her limbs. Once or twice the two siblings had taken their horses out for extended exercise, riding to Osgiliath for a picnic.

They spoke of their hopes, of the future, of their fears of what may come when they returned to Edoras. Erkenbrand had taken good care of Rohan in their absence, but there was much to do. Éomer had fallen for Lothíriel, and Éowyn was sure that Éomer was spending near as much time with the Princess of Dol Amroth as she was spending with the Steward. Watching light come into her brother had meant more to her than she thought possible.

Éowyn dried her hair, then left it down. Faramir seemed to like to touch it when he woke from nightmares,which he had in greater numbers than she did. Éowyn then looked over at the gift she had waited to give him. Gimli had finished the work on the first weeks ago, but Legolas’s clay seal had worked so well that Éowyn had decided to hold off presenting it until she had the set. Inspiration had come the night of Imrahil’s party. The night Faramir became a Prince.

She and Gandalf had gone into the archives, and she had found the original seal of the House of Húrin. It was a crest with the jagged mountains of the Emyn Arnen valley, with the white tree and seven stars of Gondor at its base. Éowyn and Legolas added an additional flourish, a line of the Anduin and the more jagged line of Ephel Dúath, the signet of the Prince of Ithilien, of the House of Húrin. Aragorn had loved it, donating the Mithril himself to make the seal. Éowyn had finished the piece by spiriting away a part of the saddle off of Boromir’s horse, which Legolas again fashioned into a remarkable handle. Two parting gifts, so Faramir would remember who he _is_. Today was the day Éowyn would finally present them to her raven-haired Steward.

She packed the two seals in a bag, and stepped out of her door. She smiled up at Faramir’s window, knowing that he had been looking for her. Faramir read during the night as Éowyn slept, and met with dignitaries and finished correspondence while Éowyn was in the House of Healing. But with three days until she left for Rohan, Faramir had grown restless, savoring every moment he could spend with her.

The door opened before she could knock, and she saw her love on the other side. Éowyn walked in and closed the door. She pulled Faramir in for a kiss, and let her hands explore as they loved doing. She loved feeling the small of Faramir’s back, and the little dimples there. He had finally given in, and let her hands freely wander his skin. She felt Faramir grab onto her hair, and brought his mouth to her neck. Éowyn felt her nerves shutter as Faramir grazed the spot with his teeth. They’d found that particular sensation only last week, and enjoyed testing it further when they were in private.

“Min elskede, if you keep this up, you will get no sleep,” Éowyn whispered breathily, not wanting Faramir to stop, but knowing he had to, Faramir’s sleep only came when she was there.

“You will be gone for so long Éowyn, I want to make sure I have as many memories as I can,” Faramir’s eyes were alight with fire and mischief, “Just a few more minutes? Then I promise, I will fall asleep as you read.”

Éowyn pushed him away gently, “I have gifts for you.”

“Besides yourself?” Faramir grinned, “I could need no other.”

“You can give me these kisses and many more for the rest of our lives,” Éowyn looked into his twinkling gray eyes, “But I can only give you this gift once, and I want at least a couple of days to see you enjoy them before I must away.”

“Okay me'a en' coiamin,” Faramir stole one more kiss, “But your kisses are better gifts then anything else you may have up your sleeve. I am not sure my study can survive many more of your gifts!”

“It was only the chair that met its destruction at my hands! And Éomer has confirmed that the finest Rohirric horsehair is on the way,” Éowyn grinned, “We have found a craftsman on the second level who has agreed to build you one anew.”

“I still have not seen what you’ve done to the ring,” Faramir retorted.

“Then let that mystery be solved today,” Éowyn smiled.

Faramir looked down at the parcel Éowyn had placed on the entry table when they’d greeted. Éowyn picked it up and handed it to Faramir.

“Open the black one first,” Éowyn said, barely containing her excitement.

Faramir did as instructed. Out it came. The ring of the Steward, now expertly worked into a seal. The Steward’s mark was perfectly preserved by the master hand of Gimli.

“This handle, it is familiar to me,” Faramir was fingering the soft leather that was stretched over the wood and cork, then brought it to his nose, “Lavender…”

Éowyn blushed, “It was the first token of your love. This… is what has become of the leather strap you wrapped lavender for me… during our healing.”

Faramir pulled her to him, hugging her tightly. Éowyn could hear his breathing quaver, then he kissed her. She reveled in these moments, when she could bring him such an overpowering sense of joy that she was sure that all his dark memories had fled. Even for just a moment. She suspected it was about to get better.

“Every day I doubt that it is possible for me to love you more,” Faramir said, “And every day you do something… like _this_ and show me that I am wrong, that loving you more is not only possible, but inevitable.”

Éowyn kissed Faramir’s cheek softly, tasting the salty tear that had escaped his eye.

“I am sorry you had to wait so long for your seal to be returned to you,” Éowyn smiled hopefully, “Now open the next one.”

Faramir hesitated, then pulled apart the green cloth. Another seal.

“What is…” Faramir started, then abruptly stopped; as he studied the seal, he started to tremble, “House of Húrin. You made me a seal of my House.”

“Your Steward’s seal needed a sibling,” Éowyn’s words burst out of her, “Gandalf escorted me into the archives, and we found the seal of your House. Legolas helped me add to the design…”

“You added Ithilien,” Faramir’s voice was now heavy with tears, as he ran his thumb over the engraved Anduin and mountains.

“We did,” Éowyn replied, “Aragorn gave his approval for the design, and was the one to give us the Mithril. Gimli worked the design into the seal. Then we used leather from your brother’s saddle to fashion the handle.”

“You found Boromir’s saddle. So you could make a House of Húrin seal.” Faramir had not composed himself.

“I… hope you like it?” Éowyn said the words tentatively.

“Éowyn…” Faramir was shaking his head, he’d given in to the moment, “This is… perfect. You… you… are perfect...”

Éowyn had rendered Faramir speechless. He pulled her in again, and hugged her. She could feel his tears fall onto her shoulder, and knew they were tears of joy. She had dearly hoped that she could bring this happiness to him. Give him his brother back, give him his family back, but do so in a way that did not pain him. Faramir breathed deeply and his tears abated, then he looked into Éowyn’s eyes. His hand gently brushed her jaw, and he leaned in, placing the tenderest of kisses on her mouth, and she could feel his love pass into her.

Faramir had given her freedom, and unconditional love. He’d made it clear that she was free to find joy completely uncaged. He’d scoured every library for books on healing, translating them himself. Faramir had even found a Númenorean book of healing written in Quenyan. He’d transcribed that book himself, to ensure that every word was correct, and every image was perfectly copied.

She gave him serenity and safety, and he gave her confidence and aspiration. Through Faramir, Éowyn had healed the broken girl who’d wished for death, revealing a woman who could see the hurts of the world, and heal them. Through Éowyn, Faramir was no longer the broken boy afraid of making his father’s mistakes, but a man with the wisdom and vision to bring about a new world. She wanted the rest of it. She wanted their marriage bed. She wanted the last barriers that separated her from her beloved to fall away, she wanted to make love to him. Faramir was a man of his word, and their wedding night _would_ be the first time they coupled, but that did not stop Éowyn’s frustration for wanting this marvel of a man right now. She knew that she would count down the days until Faramir joined her in Rohan, and finally they _joined_.

“Min elskede, I’m not sure my heart can take those thoughts,” Faramir was looking at Éowyn’s eyes, clearly reading some of her mind, “You’ve stolen my heart, and my mind. If you keep thinking of stealing the last, my body, I fear I will drop dead for the overpowering bliss you fill me with.”

Éowyn laughed, Faramir had recovered enough to find his words.

“It is not my fault,” Éowyn pinched Faramir’s cheek, “That you are so tempting min elskede.”

“If I tempt you,” Faramir pulled Éowyn in close, “Just imagine how much you tempt me…”

“You needs must stop underestimating women Faramir,” Éowyn was dead serious, “Lust is not solely the provenance of men.”

Faramir groaned, Éowyn loved causing him to make that sound. He always composed himself eventually, yet it titillated her seeing him give in for those brief moments to his own lust. Éowyn thought it spoke well of the health of their marriage bed.

“Now you’ve done it. I shall not sleep,” Faramir pulled Éowyn back in and kissed her, biting her lower lip playfully. He took a handful of her hair and tugged on it. If Faramir kept this up, Éowyn was certain that sleep would evade them… Éowyn pushed Faramir away. Faramir needed his sleep.

“You will always know how to stoke my desire min elskede,” Éowyn let her hand linger on Faramir’s chest, feeling the rapid beating of his heart, “Come, the garden awaits us. Time for you to sleep.”

Éowyn took Faramir’s hand and led him out to the garden. A blanket was waiting in their well-worn glade. Éowyn leaned against her tree, and Faramir lay his head in her lap. Éowyn looked in Faramir’s eyes, and she saw so many things. She saw their life in those eyes. She saw their children running into his waiting arms. She saw them watching the sun rise together, growing old and watching Ithilien come to life. It was all there, and it was shared.

“Close your eyes,” Éowyn leaned down, and kissed the lids of both of those precious gray eyes, “I hope you dream the dreams I see in your eyes Faramir.”

“What did you see min elskede?” Faramir closed his eyes, and Éowyn stroked his brow.

“I saw Ithilien, growing strong in our care,” Éowyn replied, and she saw a smile bloom on Faramir, “I saw us watching the sunrise over Emyn Arnen, old and wrinkled. I saw our children. Running to you.”

Faramir’s smile did not fade, but his breathing became steadier, deeper. Finally, he was dreaming. Éowyn wiped the tear that had materialized in her eye. Meeting Faramir convinced Éowyn to heed the songs of the Ainur. So much had to happen to bring them together: A ring. A retreat. Sorrow and desperation. A hundreds year old prophecy. A Hobbit. A King with healing hands. And now here they were, together. It could only have been through the intervention of the divine.

She did not say it, but she was afraid to return to Rohan. The ghosts in that place would haunt her again. But she would be there for her brother, she would help him build the Rohan that they’d spoken of on those picnics. He assured her that she would return a hero, but he did not understand that around every corner was a memory of Gríma. Or Théoden. Meduseld was full of despair for her. She would count down every moment she was away from Faramir. As she thought about it, she looked down at her sleeping Steward, and pressed a long lingering kiss on his slumbering lips. At the touch of her lips, his eyes opened.

“Min elskede?” Faramir was studying her.

“Sorry,” Éowyn should have known better, Faramir was the lightest of sleepers.

“Tell me your sorrows,” Faramir did not move his head, but he took her hand and kissed it.

“I was thinking of Meduseld,” Éowyn replied, “That place was so dark when I fled, full of trapped despair.”

“Expect a letter from me with every messenger,” Faramir was looking at Éowyn, “And I swear if you ask, I will ride to you.”

“You need to be here with your new King min elskede,” Éowyn replied, “As much as I need to be there with my brother.”

“Promise me,” Faramir did not break Éowyn’s gaze, “That if you need me, you will ask. I can’t bear your pain if I have it in my power to relieve it Éowyn.”

“I promise,” Éowyn leaned down, and kissed Faramir, “And I too will write to you with every messenger going between Rohan and Gondor.”

“Six weeks will go by quickly,” Faramir said.

“Close your eyes again min elskede,” Éowyn gently touched Faramir’s brow, “Think of our reunion, and think of that wonderful day that you and I become husband and wife. Think upon our wedding night, and let yourself drift back to sleep.”

“Speaking of our wedding night will do nothing to relax me,” Faramir grinned playfully.

“Then think about our children, of sunrises and sunsets, of Ithilien.” Éowyn replied, he would sleep, if she had to make him. Faramir finally obeyed, and Éowyn waited until his breathing was steady and deep.

Éowyn took the package out of her pocket, a wedding gift from the healers. To be opened when she was alone. She untied it carefully and saw it was a small golden book. She looked at the title:  _Book of the Flesh_ _._ Éowyn nearly started, but steadied herself before she awoke her sleeping Steward once more. Her cheeks turned red, but Éowyn felt a smile blossom on her face.

 _This is a mighty gift,_ Éowyn’s smile had turned impish, _a gift for me and a gift for him._

She carefully repacked the book. She would study this book with the same devotion she did all other books of healing. She would read it every time she felt the haunts of Meduseld. Her wedding night. The man she so desired. And in her hands, the tools to make that night one of sacred joy, but also of profound pleasure. Six weeks. Éowyn could make it.

 _My dear Steward, you will not be able to share the contents of the letters I will be writing you,_ Éowyn grinned. Word by word, page by page, she would share that book with Faramir. It would be her secret bliss in Meduseld’s darkness, and it would be her reward on their wedding night.


	37. Lothíriel 2

**_1 day before coronation_   
** “Please tell me what you have planned Lothíriel,” Faramir moved his rook. They were playing chess with more than pieces.

“In due time cousin,” Lothíriel grinned, taking Faramir’s rook with her bishop. He would see that she’d left that piece unguarded, ready for the taking, and she wondered if he would take the bait.

“Éowyn won’t tell me either,” Faramir took the bishop, he was distracted, “I have half a mind to command Pippin speak!”

“You would not do that to the poor Hobbit,” Lothíriel scolded, “Do you trust me?”

Faramir looked up at her, and Lothíriel nearly laughed. His eyes said it all. There would be no spoons _during_ coronation. All co-conspirators received their instructions on small pieces of parchment. All had burned them, per her instructions. Faramir had not managed to crack any of them, and he was turning desperate.

“Can you at least tell me who is in on it?” Faramir pleaded. This was far too fun.

“Exactly who you suspect, and perhaps one or two you do not,” Lothíriel replied, “...Have you been sleeping cousin? It is not usually this easy.”

“Better than any other time in my life Loth,” Faramir smiled involuntarily, “Just please tell Éowyn and the Hobbits that spoons should not make an appearance during the actual coronation.”

The game was on now. Faramir had let something slip, and was offering a quid pro quo. Information for information. Lothíriel decided to extend the chess game.

“Odd how we never see you in the afternoon when Éowyn comes to call,” Lothíriel moved her pawn, “Games often are the more the merrier, and no cousin, I would not disrupt such an event as a new King.”

Faramir paused, and studied her. His face was impassive, though so much so it was clear that he had wiped emotion from it to keep her from knowing the reaction her words had caused. _Had they..?_ Something told her no. Without prompting, her own cheeks reddened as she thought on Éomer.

“New Kings indeed,” Faramir grinned, _damn, he noticed_. Faramir moved his own pawn, he was extending the game as well. But Lothíriel knew more.

“Éomer gets a bit testy when he drops me off at my door,” Lothíriel spoke, putting her own mask on in their battle of wits, “It is clear that he is keeping a secret.”  
She knew what the secret was.

Color started to come to Faramir’s face. It was rare to see him blush. Faramir exhaled.

“Do you want it plainly?” Faramir asked, _rare indeed_.

“Yes cousin,” these were not their regular tactics.

“Éowyn and I have had trouble sleeping our whole lives. Made worse by our cursed shadow sleep. The only time I have slept peacefully since… since… since before I can remember is when she is with me,” Faramir willed Lothíriel to understand, “I guard over her sleep during the night, and she guards over mine in the afternoon.”

Faramir’s admission was somehow both purer and more scandalous than Lothíriel had imagined. Éomer knew that the Steward was in his sister’s room. But he also knew Faramir and Éowyn were keeping their vows. No wonder he turned sour the moment he walked by the apartment those nights they strolled through the city…

“You lit candles,” Lothíriel replied, impressed, she moved her pawn to take Faramir’s.

“So, spoons... Hobbits, Éowyn, you, your brothers,” Faramir was studying her, “Oh no.”  
Faramir seemed to realize how substantial the spoon conspiracy had become.

“What cousin?” Lothíriel fluttered her eyes while Faramir rolled his.

“Éomer too, and Imrahil.” Faramir replied.

“And Gimli, and Legolas,” Lothíriel grinned. She would keep the last participant a surprise.

“I want in.” Faramir leaned across the table, throwing the full force of his gaze at Lothíriel, “Put me down for… _a bottle of Ithilien wine._ ”

“Wait… hasn’t Ithilien been without vineyards for..” Lothíriel started.

“70 years. This is old wine, wine that Denethor had hoarded away. I _found_ it,” Faramir interrupted, “Now. Tell me the when.”

Lothíriel looked down at the chessboard, and realized Faramir had also checkmated her. It had been a long time since he let her win, but she now understood he had always been holding back.

“Are our matches of wits to you as our matches of chess cousin?” Lothíriel had to know.

Faramir laughed, “No Loth, our wits are as well matched as ever. My fiancée has just been teaching me some new tricks.”

Lothíriel laughed heartily, “Coronation _dinner_. Watch for Imrahil’s signal, for he will start the game.”

Faramir nodded conspiratorially. He was lighter, as if his discovered happiness had illuminated something deeper inside him. The hopeful boy too quickly replaced with the thoughtful and melancholy man. Hope and joy radiated from him now. It was a wonder.

“I fear this must be our last game Far,” Lothíriel spoke, “I need to go home and get ready…”

“A King?” Faramir raised an eyebrow, Lothíriel’s cheeks gave her away.

“If you must know, yes. He is taking me riding. He was flabbergasted that I ride sidesaddle,” Lothíriel replied, the excitement was in her voice even as she tried to hide it, “So he is teaching me to ride as a Shieldmaiden would.”

“I see…” Faramir’s grin was insufferable, despite understanding the affliction that was being in the presence of the golden siblings.

“Have a nice _nap_ cousin,” Lothíriel smirked.

“I will. And you have a good ride. Perhaps if you tire him, he will have fewer blows awaiting me,” Faramir laughed, “Loth, I am so happy for you. For you both.”

Lothíriel smiled mildly. She _thought_ Éomer was falling for her, but he was so… reticent, as if he was afraid he might break her if he touched her. She was getting frustrated by it, and had let doubts leech into her mind. Even in one so plain spoken, what if he was continuing to woo her to keep up appearances with her father?

“Tell me your sorrows Loth,” Faramir broke her concentration, and she realized that she’d not masked her face while she worried.

“Please don’t tell anyone Far,” Lothíriel sighed, “But… when I speak to him, when I laugh with him, I am _so sure_ that we feel the same way for each other. But then I move to touch him, to bring him closer to me, and he tenses and withdraws…”

Éomer called upon Lothíriel nearly every day. Éomer was the one who finally assented to Lothíriel’s desire to learn to fight back. He took their sparring lessons seriously, and was a good and fun teacher. She loved walking with him through the city, still often using their disguises of Hemling and Andawel. His stories moved her, and his self-effacement and honesty were not just refreshing, they were addictive. Éomer was someone Lothíriel did not need to wear her mask around. Seeing him brought energy to her, when so often speaking to nobles sapped her. So why did he not want to touch her?

Faramir put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, “He loves you Loth. I am not sure when he figured it out, but it was early. He’s asked Éowyn a thousand questions about love. About what it feels like for a woman to love a man. She’s been assuaging his fears. Though the bruises I wear are a sign they’ve not all been assuaged.”

“...Fears?..” Lothíriel asked, and caught Faramir looking sheepish, “Explain cousin.”

“You know the cause Loth,” Faramir said, “Éomer’s hesitancy is from Éowyn’s experience with Gríma Wormtongue. He meant to kill all heirs to Rohan save Éowyn.”

“And then…” Lothíriel understood. The fury blazing in Faramir’s eyes only confirmed her suspicions.

A man in Rohan had tried to claim Éowyn. Lothíriel and Éowyn had spoken of this at length. Éomer had alluded to it from time to time, but she had never connected his anger and shame about Éowyn’s experiences with the worries that women were afraid of men. Lothíriel could feel her gut lurch. Éomer was terrified of his desire, for fear that it brought pain. He was afraid that with desire came conquest, and with conquest, would come Lothíriel’s fear of him. Their nightly routine of a kiss to her hand and a kiss to his cheek had been lovely, but not enough. Lothíriel knew what she had to do.

“Thank you Far,” Lothíriel walked to her cousin, still stiff from his own anguish, “I promise you, I will not let Gríma haunt Éomer’s dreams.”

She pulled Faramir into a tight hug, willing her own love into him. He was so special to her. She was glad now, in the new Dawn, to look upon her cousin and see him changed. His happiness was now apparent upon his face, a secret light that had always been burning and just needed the right kindling. It was time for Lothíriel to set Éomer’s heart alight, and make it clear at last that she was not afraid of his desire. One final squeeze to her cousin and Lothíriel was off. She needed to re-braid her hair and to change. A King awaited her in the stables.

Lothíriel surveyed her clothes, and decided to be bold. She chose a set of breeches to wear under a wide-set skirt, and a comfortable bodice that allowed her to breath, but provided support. When she looked at herself in the mirror, she smiled. With a kiss to her father, who was in his study, Lothíriel was off. She certainly did not tell Imrahil that a riding lesson was not all she had planned.

As she walked down through the city and to the stables, Lothíriel took a deep breath. The city was electric with the anticipation of the King. The tension had been building since the new Dawn, and was going to break at the coming coronation. Lothíriel liked the man Aragorn, but she found him distant. He may have been a Ranger in the North, but his attitude was distinctly elven. She definitely preferred a different King.

Lothíriel finally saw the stables come into view. She paused. She was always one to act first and think second, and liked that about Éomer too. But… was this too far? Too bold? No. Lothíriel’s instincts told her that it was not. Faramir’s words only further confirmed it for her. Their riding meant privacy, so Lothíriel thought it was now or never. She would pull Éomer in, and she would kiss him with all the hunger that she felt, to see if he felt the same. It was time for all to be laid bare.

With that last thought, she propelled her feet forward and walked into the stable. Éomer was there with a handsome bay gelding, stroking its nose. When he heard her, he looked up. Something in his eyes looked strange - strained. Lothíriel studied it. Their familiarity had grown over the course of the month, and for the most part, Éomer no longer looked nervous about calling on her. This moment though was different. Why was he wearing such an expression?

“What troubles you Éomer?” Lothíriel had learned it was best to speak truly with Éomer.

Éomer’s frown deepened, “It is that obvious?”

“I have the skill of reading people, and have enjoyed your company for a month,” Lothíriel replied, she liked the honesty they had cultivated with one another, “So yes, I can see your distress as plainly as if you’d spoken it to me.”

Éomer nodded, but he had still not made eye contact. _What is it Éomer?_ Lothíriel pressed her mind toward his. Somehow she knew to stay quiet, to let him find his voice and speak.

“Dark memories are haunting me” Éomer asked, Lothíriel nodded, “Well, the night that _he_ almost took my sister… it- it- happened in the stables…”

Lothíriel understood. Gríma Wormtongue, and the prize he had tried to poison his way through the royal family to win. Éowyn had told her about a fateful night when Gríma had nearly killed her. Lothíriel pictured Éowyn’s ferocity in that moment, the woman who laughed in the face of Fear. Deciding to die rather than become a humiliating conquest. Éowyn had also told Lothíriel of Éomer’s timely but traumatic intervention.

 _It happened in the stables_.

Lothíriel’s life had been charmed. The beloved youngest. The daughter that her mother and father had prayed to the Valar for after being blessed with three sons. The smallest and most precious to her brothers, and to her cousins. Lothíriel had never felt threatened by men, because the many men in her life had protected her ardently. She had never thought about how sheltered, and how lucky, that made her. Not until she met Éowyn. Not until she met Éomer. Not until she saw the damage that being a woman hunted could cause, on both the victim and on the men who thought they’d failed to protect her.

“My entire life, I have been the ward of fiercely protective men. My father and my brothers, and my uncle and cousins,” Lothíriel finally caught Éomer’s eye, and forced her gaze and her light into him, “I’ve never had cause to fear men… and did not realize how lucky that has made me.”

The line in Éomer’s jaw relaxed slightly as he looked at her. But Lothíriel could tell that his distress was not over.  Lothíriel took one step closer to Éomer, all the pieces had come together, “Let’s ride, so we can talk more freely.”

As if broken out of the dark mists of his memories, Éomer finally looked at Lothíriel. He sized up her outfit, and that familiar red color came to his face. _He’s pleased with what he sees_ , Lothíriel smiled.

“Is this acceptable?” Lothíriel let her voice gained back its playfulness, “I would not want to embarrass myself in front of a rider of Rohan.”

“Yes,” Éomer replied, his lip curling ever so slightly, “You look… acceptable.”

Lothíriel laughed. As always, Éomer was leaving the _beautiful_ unsaid. But she heard it there, in the pregnant pause.

“Lead on Hemling,” Lothíriel walked the short distance remaining to the King, who kept looking at her.

“You will need to mount,” Éomer said, “I can help...”

Lothíriel realized that he was offering to boost her onto the horse. She almost said no and asked for steps, to avoid the embarrassment she predicted would come of this. _You will have to do this yourself someday,_ Lothíriel frowned, _it might as well be today._ And so she strode forward. Lothíriel looked at Éomer, and put her hands on either side of the saddle. The horse fidgeted, but stayed still enough.

“Now, put your foot into my hands,” Éomer looked amused, he was having fun watching her discomfort, “When I push up, swing your other leg over the horse and onto the other side.”

“If the ladies of Amroth could see me now,” Lothíriel smiled brightly, _this must be how he feels all the time walking through the city with me_ , the thought brought a laugh to her lips.

“You will have to ask Éowyn what the ladies of Edoras are like, but I think that they will prefer to see you can ride,” Éomer took Lothíriel’s foot into his hand and propelled her up onto the horse.

“So you think I should spend time in Edoras?” Lothíriel studied the King, who had turned that adorable shade of red that he so often did.

“Well… your father after all… is in… is… ambassador,” Éomer stuttered.

“There are other reasons I may come visit,” Lothíriel replied, _honest_ , “Not the least of which is that this is a far more comfortable way to sit a horse!”

Éomer laughed. _Good._

“Wait for me outside,” Éomer released her mount’s bridle, “I will take you to a place Éowyn and I have found on our rides. It is beautiful, and an easy ride, even for someone of Gondor.”

“Your challenges only make me look more forward to the moment I take you sailing Hemling,” Lothíriel replied, and gently kicked her horse into a walk.

Once she was outside of the stables, she waited. Éomer was not far behind. The two took a leisurely pace down through the city. Lothíriel had noticed that although her legs were not in a ladylike position at all, it was much more comfortable riding a horse this way. She knew she would never go back. Her weapon of words would hopefully go to war against the ladies and men of Gondor who insisted women must ride sidesaddle.

Once they crossed beneath the last gate, Éomer trotted ahead of her. He looked back at her, and she _knew_ . She was ready. Éomer spurred his horse, and she followed. They took off first at a canter, and then at a gallop. It was terrifying. Lothíriel could feel her muscles strain as she gripped too tightly, and she knew her horse noticed. In a moment, she felt it, the rhythm of the horse, the rhythm of her own body upon it. It was its own sort of dance. It was exhilarating. The bay horse that Éomer had chosen was smooth and gentle, happy to abide Lothíriel’s instructions upon his back. Lothíriel let the horse’s motions dictate her own, and soon she held her head up and swallowed the oncoming air. She wanted to release the reins and let her arms free, but she was not sure she trusted her horse _quite_ that much yet.

Éomer was not far ahead, looking back often to watch her. She looked at him and saw her joy reflect in his face. What a feeling it was! Unconfined by the rest of the world, racing to the unknown to share a moment with the King who never left her mind. A thicket was fast approaching, and Lothíriel saw Éomer swing toward it. She propelled her bay forward and joined him. The faster they moved, the more her euphoria grew. Finally, Éomer’s pace lessened, and both horses slowed to a trot, then to a walk. Éomer ducked his horse onto a well-hidden pathway. They finally came to a clearing. A picnic had been laid for them there.

“You’d planned this,” Lothíriel laughed rapturously.

“You think your cousin or father would let us, a Princess and a King, fly away from the castle without escort?” Éomer replied, “Both Faramir and my men have been scouting this area for days. A squirrel could not have passed into this thicket unmarked.”

“Are we being watched now?” Lothíriel asked.

“Thankfully no. Hence the feverish preparation beforehand. If harm had come to… to us… Faramir and Imrahil would have killed me…” Éomer hopped from his horse, then walked to Lothíriel.

She swung her leg over the back of the horse and felt her balance shift. Éomer noticed too, and before she knew it, his hands were on her waist, steadying her, and lifting her to the ground. His hands on her body sent tremors of thrill through her. He so rarely touched her, she savored every moment when he did. This was by far the most intimate touch she had ever experienced from him.

When he had put her on the ground, she did not think. It was the right time. Lothíriel stepped in even closer to Éomer, hearing his breathing, smelling the faint smell of horsehair and leather, gazing into his eyes. Lothíriel took another step in. Éomer did not retreat, as if both had been waiting for this moment. _It is time,_ Lothíriel thought, and she stood on her tiptoes and leaned in. Strong hands had found their way to the small of her back, but he did not pull her closer, he hovered on the tip of anticipation, waiting for _her_. Éomer’s face held both fear and excitement, and Lothíriel did not believe she could escape the intensity of his gaze if she had tried. She did not want to.

Lothíriel brought her lips to his, and they kissed. It carried the passion of a month of waiting, as they sought to explore the other’s lips, the other’s mouth, the other’s tongue. Lothíriel held the back of Éomer’s neck, and felt his hands pulling her closer to him. Finally, when they could share their breath no longer, the kiss ended.

Éomer exhaled, then he went stiff. His hands darted away from Lothíriel, and he took a step back. Lothíriel could see fear in his eyes. Afraid of his desire? _That would not do_. Lothíriel closed the distance again between them, grabbed Éomer’s hands and placed them back on her body, and drew him back in for another extended kiss. This time, Lothíriel’s hands wandered freely through his hair, along his neck, to his shoulders. She gave in completely to the bliss of their passion, to tasting the man she wanted to spend all her waking hours with. The man who made frequent appearances in her imaginings of her wedding night.

“Éomer,” Lothíriel sighed the words out.

He stopped immediately, looking at her through eyes full of fire. But there was something else there, some memory that had made its way to the surface that added panic to his expression. Lothíriel’s expression turned from bliss to concern. So this was what had stayed Éomer’s passion so long. She could tell he wanted keep kissing her, but some memory was haunting their rapture. She stepped back just slightly, and let her hands find his.

“You don’t need to tell me the whole of it now Éomer, but if we are to continue as I hope we do, you will eventually need to tell me,” Lothíriel projected comfort and hope into her voice, trying to nurture the stricken King with her words.

Éomer finally broke his mind away from whatever memory was haunting him, _likely the stables_ , and looked into Lothíriel’s eyes. His look had purpose, and Lothíriel could see the fear subside. Unexpectedly, Éomer then got down on a knee, still holding both of Lothíriel’s hands in his own. Éomer then looked up at her.

“Lothíriel, please come and stay in Rohan with your father.”


	38. Éomer 8

**_1 day before coronation_   
** Éomer had been planning this moment for a week. He and Éowyn had found the thicket and the clearing, and he knew that would be the place. He’d waited so long for this moment with Lothíriel he’d nearly missed it, having just two days before he headed back to Rohan.

Éomer had used his best men to scout the area, scouring every inch of their ride to make sure that they were safe. Faramir had also sent Ithilien Rangers to scout, and they were accompanied by Legolas. Éowyn had asked Faramir and Legolas for him, as he suspected that the Steward would ask far fewer questions if such a request came from Éowyn. Éomer suspected that Faramir was as protective of Lothíriel as Éomer was of Éowyn. He did not say this, but the bruises they put on each other while sparring had spoken loudly enough.

And here he now was. In the moment he’d waited all this time for, kissing the woman he loved. Finding that he wanted to do was pull her closer. Taste her. And her eyes and her hands said she felt the same. Éomer had wanted to kiss Lothíriel since their first night, when she looked up into the sky in the Citadel. But he was always afraid. What if he pushed her too hard? What if she was just trying to please her father? What if Éomer inadvertently made Lothíriel feel hunted, as Éowyn had been? Every night he thought about meeting Lothíriel’s lips when she leaned in to kiss his cheek, and every night he dithered. Éowyn had been nothing but patient with his frets (though frankly, letting her and Faramir’s sleeping arrangements go unremarked was payback enough…). Finally, the overwhelming need to touch her had broken past his fear. He had fallen in love. It overpowered everything else. So he had decided to plan.

Kissing her had been worth it. Feeling her hands on him, her mouth as enthusiastic as his own exploring those new sensations. He thought that kissing her once would leave him sated. But no, kissing her once made him want to kiss her again. And Valar, when Lothíriel touched him, he thought he would break apart so good it felt. But in that same moment, he felt fear. He saw that night in the stables, he heard Éowyn’s screams. He saw the look in Gríma’s face, the _desire_ there. He wondered if the look in his own eyes looked like… _that_. It made his stomach twist. He knew those feelings were waiting for him when he finally touched Lothíriel. And they hit him like a tidal wave.

He’d frozen for a second, but Lothíriel had helped him find his bearings again. They kissed, and he felt her hands boldly on him. Her nails on his neck transmitted a pleasure throughout his body. He never wanted to let her go. But the echoes of Éowyn’s screams reverberated in his memory.

“Éomer,” his name in Lothíriel’s voice broke him out of the moment, for he heard Éowyn crying his name after he’d thrown down the Worm, after the guards had grabbed him and started pulling him away from his sister, still huddled in the corner of the stall, nearly broken.

Instead of pulling him in again, Lothíriel stepped back the slightest amount. Had his terror ruined it? Had she finally given up on him? Perhaps that was for the best. Lothíriel deserved someone who was not hindered by fear, nor driven uncontrollably by desire. Éomer worried he was both. Then Lothíriel took his hands in her’s.

“You don’t need to tell me the whole of it now Éomer, but if we are to continue as I hope we do, you will eventually need to tell me,” she understood.

She had seen it all in his face. She knew he was being haunted by his memories of that horrible moment of Éowyn’s violation. And the warmth and love that came from her voice… stopped him. The visions of their children and their laughter in Meduseld came back, replacing the echoes of terror and Gríma. She understood what stayed his passion, and she seemed to even understand what had frozen him in the paradise of their first kiss.

Éomer had been pretty sure he wanted to marry Lothíriel. Now he _knew_ how much he wanted _her_ . He wanted her for her mind as much as for her beauty. He wanted her for her humor as much as he wanted her for her soft curly hair. He wanted her for her intuition as much as he wanted her for the softness of her skin. He wanted her for her ability to just _get_ him as he did for the shapeliness of her breasts. It was intoxicating. He would woo her, and he would consider no other unless she said no.

But deciding he wanted to marry her was far different in practice than in his dreams. He had watched Éowyn rot from the inside out being stuck in Edoras. He understood her suicidal misery was in part because of Wormtongue’s poison, but it was also because she could not escape. It was a place so pressing that she had to defy her uncle and her King and disguise herself as a man to seek death, simply to escape. A noble woman was the thrall of either her family or her husband. She was not free to seek joy of her own, even with the most permissive and loving of husbands. Éowyn’s light shone brighter the closer she got to Ithilien. Éomer knew because he had ridden there with her. He had not told her why he had done it, but he wanted to see. He wanted to make sure that Éowyn would be happy to be tethered to that place. Faramir would never force her, but to be free of force and to be tethered were different.

Éomer would not see Lothíriel tethered to a place she did not love either. He would not let her agree to marry him without shining an inner light at those rolling hills and snow-capped mountains. When he saw her ride Surefoot, the bay he had procured for her, he did not watch her motions, but her face. He wanted to _see_ her on that horse, to make sure that riding with the breeze in her hair brought her pleasure, because any queen of Rohan would be expected to sit a horse often. When he saw the joy on her face, he wanted to stop her right then and kiss her. Because he could see her love of riding take root, and he knew he would get to nurture it and see it grow. He wanted to also nurture in her a deep and abiding love of Rohan, as he enjoyed. So that should he ask her to marry him, asking too that she tether herself to Rohan, she did so for the joy of the place as much as for the love of the man.

Éomer took himself to a single knee. Lothíriel’s eyes grew wide, searching him for the meaning of his gesture. All would become clear.

“Lothíriel, please come and stay in Rohan with your father,” Éomer’s words had lost all their nervous stutter. He was sure of his ask.

Lothíriel had not broken their gaze, considering him. He wondered how much she could read in his eyes. Did she know that he had fallen in love with her? That even before the kiss that nearly undid him, he knew he was in love? Did she know that thinking of her eyes and her light could stay the dark feelings of doubt that so often stalked his mind?

“What awaits me in Rohan, Éomer King?” Lothíriel asked.

“A promise,” Éomer replied, how much should he tell her? _Everything._

Lothíriel’s eyes grew more intense. Éomer’s insinuation had not gone unnoticed. But he could see she wondered why the half measure.

“Lothíriel, I’ve fallen in love with you. I think about being with you night and day... “ Éomer could feel the blush coming on, but he knew he must continue, _honest_ , “I feared kissing you, because of the haunting memories that tie my desire to my near failure to protect my sister. Yet our first kiss will be one that I will remember for the rest of my life. It made what was a feeling before a certainty. I want to be with you. But…”

“But…?” Lothíriel’s eyes were inquisitive, but also… there was worry in them.

“I watched my sister languish, trapped in Meduseld with my uncle. Hunted by a man seeking to claim her. Fearing the cage that had entrapped her,” Éomer continued, it was getting easier saying it all out loud, “She decided to take her own life rather than live in that cage.”

“So I come to Rohan… to await you?” Lothíriel was testing him, he recognized.

“No… no, not at all,” Éomer felt the red of his face darken, “You come to Rohan to see if you will fall in love with my land and my people, as much as me.”

Éomer finally had to break their intense eye contact. He would tell her the last.

“My own mother… she… she fell in love with my father to the exclusion of everything else,” Éomer could feel the tear coming to his eye, “When my father died, she just… stopped. We tried so hard to bring her out of her sorrow, but she was gone from us. It took her a year, but she died because she did not have enough love left in her heart for her children. Éowyn and I were orphans when I was but 12 years old. Even if someone had love in their heart for me, I will never want to see another suffer as my mother did. As… Éowyn and I did… watching her… fade away.”

“I… did not know about your mother Éomer,” Lothíriel spoke, then did the most extraordinary thing. She fell to her knees, so that she and Éomer were face-to-face, then she leaned into him and kissed him again. He expected the hunger and desire to flare up, along with fear, but this kiss to his lips was tender and loving. Healing. Éowyn’s screams did not invade it. Lothíriel closed her lips, then used her nose to caress his.

“I will come to Rohan with my father. And I will meet your people and your land,” Lothíriel brought her hand to Éomer’s cheek, and caressed it.

“I will wait for you to say yes,” the words erupted out of Éomer, “I will woo no other as long as you are considering… Rohan.”

Lothíriel laughed rapturously, musically. He loved when she laughed, “My dear King, you have asked me nothing yet, save to visit a land I have always wanted to visit.”

“Well… I will ask you,” Éomer’s tone was serious, “I love you, that will not change. But I won’t before you understand completely the tether you agree to let bind you.”

“You are protecting me from the fate of Finduilas,” Lothíriel replied, stroking Éomer’s cheek gently, “I love you too Éomer.”

Lothíriel pulled Éomer in for a hug. Éomer was not sure when in his life he had felt as he did now. She loved him as he loved her. And she _understood_ him. He was safe with her. He desperately hoped that Lothíriel would love Rohan and its people as much as he loved her.

Lothíriel then kissed Éomer, full of passion yet again. She nudged him down, so that he was on his back and she was on top of him. He tensed, worried Éowyn’s screams and Wormtongue’s desire would again flood him, but it did not. Instead he looked up at Lothíriel, and he saw it in _her_ eyes. Desire. There he lay, Lothíriel’s legs around him, utterly in her thrall. Her control ignited something inside of him, a confidence and joy in their touch. He took his hands and placed them on her waist, wondering if it was the right thing to do. The smile on Lothíriel’s face answered his question, and he felt his face light up to match. Lothíriel bent back down and kissed him again, using her tongue to rake Éomer’s teeth. Éomer closed his eyes and took in the sensation. Her weight upon him relinquished him from control and his desire became her’s. Éowyn’s screams in the stables did not come back to haunt him.

“The ghosts have left your eyes,” Lothíriel stroked Éomer’s hair.

“They may leave my eyes, but ghosts do not leave my mind,” Éomer sat up, Lothíriel still on his lap, and faced her.

“Our time runs short,” Lothíriel stroked Éomer’s cheek, “Tell me your sorrows Éomer.”

Éomer sighed, but the closeness to Lothíriel made him feel light enough to speak. Not in metaphors. Not in stunted sentences. The whole of it. The pain. The fear. The shame. And so it was, the most memorable day in Éomer’s life. Lothíriel and Éomer kissed, and laughed. And for the first time, Éomer opened his heart to someone other than Éowyn. He let Lothíriel in. He let her see the pain and the fear. Of his failure to protect those he loved. Of the darkness in his soul riding to the black gate hoping with everything he was that his sister would be whole. He spoke of the 12 year old boy who had just lost his father and mother, who promised that no harm would come to his baby sister. And then how he’d failed. How he could not protect his cousin from the darkness in Isengard. How he could not stop Wormtongue as Meduseld rotted from within. He told her everything about the night in the stables. About walking in then hearing Éowyn scream. About seeing Wormtongue on top of his sister. About seeing red and trying to kill the man. About the shame of being thrown in prison on Wormtongue’s words and watching the stony resolve of Éowyn harden, knowing that she had to protect herself because he had failed.

About how every time he heard men speak of women in his company, he thought of Wormtongue’s hunt. Of the quiet enduring misery of Éowyn at being chased, desired by a man that repulsed her. About the sickening feeling inside of him that women would never want the touch of men, if so many hunted them as Wormtongue had his sister. Finally, as the sun waned, it was time for them to head back into the white city.

“Éomer, I have only one more question for you,” Lothíriel stroked his jawline, “Why did you wait until… today… to tell me all this?”

“Ah.” Éomer stuttered, “Because I was scared. I was scared you did not feel about me as I did about you. But I was more scared that the second that I made clear my intentions, you would feel the trap spring and be unable to escape.”

“Is this why you do not propose...” Lothíriel’s words streamed from her, “You have not asked for my hand because if you do, we are bound. Either I say yes and must fear the fate of Finduilas, or I say no, and you are humiliated.”

Éomer nodded. He had not thought of the second part. He was not sure that he cared if she said no, but he was worried that she would not say no, even if she desired to.

“Yes,” Éomer replied.

“Tell this to my father,” Lothíriel uttered, “Not because this must become formal, but because this is something he needs to understand.”

Éomer was not sure he wanted to sit and explain to Imrahil why he was delaying asking for Lothíriel’s hand. He loved her. He would protect her with everything he had and was. _Would_ Imrahil understand? Éomer finally nodded. He would tell Imrahil.

“Rohan sounds beautiful,” Lothíriel smiled.

Éomer smiled back at her. He pictured it: those thoughtful eyes, blazing with excitement as they galloped to his favorite spot by the river, to the best places to pick wild strawberries in the spring, to the most magnificent glacier in the snowy mountains. Lothíriel seemed to see his mind.

“I will tell you when to ask me,” her eyes twinkled, and she closed the distance between them, giving him a kiss laced with hope.

“And I will speak with Imrahil at the coronation feast,” Éomer could feel his breathing quicken in his excitement.

“Please don’t ask him while we have spoons hanging off of our noses!” Lothíriel laughed.

“Perhaps I will,” Éomer grinned, he most certainly would, “I will not pressure you. I will wait for you.”

Lothíriel closed the distance between them again and gave him another kiss. It seemed to him that as long as she took the lead, Éowyn’s screams did not echo in his mind. Éomer saddled both their horses, and boosted Lothíriel onto Surefoot. Both then kicked their horses and off they went, racing the setting sun. Éomer rode just behind Lothíriel, and watched as she flew toward the white city. Her joy in riding the horse was apparent upon her face in the brief moments when she looked back at him. Éomer could not keep his own grin from his face. He hoped that Lothíriel would take to Rohan as she had to riding.

After unsaddling the horses, Éomer followed their nightly routine, walking Lothíriel to her door, placing the gentle kiss upon her hand and receiving her chaste kiss on his cheek. As he walked back down to his apartment, he let himself hope. Lothíriel’s desire. Lothíriel’s wisdom. Lothíriel’s humor. He wanted her by his side. He wanted her advice. He wanted her abed. He wanted her comfort and her care. He wanted her desire for him. And he would protect her in every way he felt he had failed Éowyn. And he could wait for her. He could wait for her to fall in love with Rohan, as he knew she was in love with him. And the moment she was ready, he would ask her to become his wife.

Yes, Éomer would tell Imrahil tomorrow. And perhaps he would tell his sister in the morning after Faramir had left. Today had been an interesting day. Today had been a good day. Today he knew he could reach to the stars and pluck one from the sky, for Lothíriel’s love was proof of that. He had what Éowyn had. But he also knew he could wait, for he would not let anyone suffer as his mother did, unable to love a land and a people, only a man. Éomer closed his eyes. He saw Lothíriel sitting atop him, eyes blazing with her own desire. And he dreamed of the raven-haired beauty kissing the whole of him, and he slept that night with a smile.


	39. Aragorn 8

**_Coronation day.  
_ ** Ten hours. That was what separated the past from the future. 88 years, 32 days, and ten hours. Aragorn was about to fulfill the destiny of his house.  _ His _ destiny. He thought about his forebears, all of them. Of the guardianship of Elrond, watching over his brother’s kin through the generations. Waiting. For that moment. For the return of the King. Ten hours. 88 years, thirty two days. And hundreds of years. And fathers of fathers and mothers of mothers. He thought of Faramir’s family, standing guard against the shadow. Sitting and wondering if the line of Isildur would return to succeed the failed line of Anárion. Wondering when Sauron would strike. And it was left to Faramir to understand a world in which both of those fates would happen at once.

Four weeks had revealed as much to Aragorn as those preceding 88 years and 32 days. His friends stayed few, but those he had he’d grown to cherish all the more. Legolas and Gimli and he had taken to wandering the city at night, reminiscing of their childhoods. He often ate breakfast with the Hobbits, speaking at length with Sam and Frodo of the parts of the journey after they had separated. Frodo had recovered miraculously well, despite the shadows still in his eyes. He spoke of Bilbo, and wrote. Aragorn loved when Frodo asked him to read portions of his manuscript, once in a while holding back tears at the moving descriptions and details that Frodo brought alive on the page. Frodo and Sam rarely asked for details of the battles, but always of the food and the land. The Hobbits’ conversations had turned distinctly to the Shire.

Merry and Pippin spent an inordinate amount of time in the Steward’s House, playing chess with Faramir and composing songs with Lothíriel about their adventures. The daughter of Imrahil was a musical prodigy. With the help of Lothíriel, Merry and Pippin had written an incredible tale of the time in the woods with the Ents, of returning Isengard to its natural beauty.

Evenings were often spent quietly in either the Steward’s or Imrahil’s courtyard, speaking and joking. It was where Aragorn first got to see Faramir’s skill with a blade, sparring with Éomer. Not only was Faramir talented, he was an excellent teacher. Éomer’s own skills had vastly improved, and Aragorn could sense the amusement in Faramir and exasperation in Éowyn when Éomer landed a particularly heavy blow.  _ Éomer lets his blade speak to his protectiveness over his sister, _ Aragorn had mused. But it was only when Aragorn had finally offered to take a round did he truly see Faramir’s mastery. Their sparring was less combat and more dance, one that both men recognized. Though Aragorn was the superior swordsman, he was not sure he would have been able to beat Faramir if it ever did come to blows.

More than anything, he had not considered how fast and overpowering his love of the Steward would become. The mingling emotions had not abated, but had grown so familiar as to be a comfort. There would never be secrets between them, because there could not be. True, Aragorn did not speak to Faramir at length of the longing lonely nights looking out to the North hoping to see his beloved in the distance. Nor had they spoken of his feeling Faramir’s contentment and love when he walked past Éowyn’s apartment at night. Yet in meeting the envoys that had arrived from Middle Earth, they had developed a secret language between them. Faramir’s annoyance gave away troublesome lords and ladies, and Aragorn could always count on the Steward to help him end conversations when annoyance threatened to overpower his courtesy. In joint Gondor-Rohan meetings, Éowyn provided this service to him as well. Both were adept in those situations, having grown up around such crowds and with such expectations. Aragorn knew he would learn. In due time.

Being around the pair of them had provided him a joy he had not imagined. Their love brought him hope that Arwen would come. When he met her, he had not had the privilege of experiencing Éowyn’s playfulness, which was nearly as devious as the Hobbits. She even brought playfulness out of Faramir, something that Imrahil and his family had said was near unheard of before her arrival. The shadows of guilt had not completely left Aragorn around Éowyn yet, but at least the grief of failing her had now dissipated. Ten hours. The sun was rising over the White City, to become Minas Anor again with the crowning of the King.  _ His _ crowning.

A quiet knock came to his door. He could feel Faramir’s excitement and smiled. This was a moment they were both waiting for. And they would have it together. Aragorn opened the door.

“You look haggard,” Aragorn winked, Faramir’s embarrassment in his gut.

“I work during the night and I sleep during the afternoon,” Faramir answered.

Aragorn looked at the man, and felt defiance and love. Éowyn always called on Faramir in the afternoons.  _ They guard each other’s sleep _ . He grinned, unsurprised, but moved all the same. Aragorn dropped the inquiry, “What is it you have for me Faramir?”

Faramir excitement was uncontained, “It’s finished.”

_ The King’s House _ , Aragorn realized, “Your timing is impeccable.”

“Now let us make sure that so is its craftsmanship,” replied Faramir, and the men began walking.

The King’s House had never been razed, and sat still as stone, a mausoleum to the times of old. A remnant of the glorious times of the King, dilapidated and weather-worn, though miraculously intact after those hundreds of intervening years. Aragorn and Faramir were now facing a black door, white tree glistening upon it. Faramir then looked at Aragorn and placed something in his hand. A key. Made of Mithril, and carrying the crest of Elendil.

“It appears Gimli has been busy,” Aragorn smiled broadly.

“So he has,” Faramir replied, and love flooded between them. A key for a King, and a seal for a Prince, worked by the masterhand of the jocular Dwarf.

Aragorn placed the key into the hidden hole, and turned until the lock clicked. The two opened the door. The hall was massive and empty. Faramir turned and put his arm on Aragorn’s shoulders.

“It is yours to do with as you please. I’ve seen to its structure, but left decisions about its decor to its owner. Now go and explore. There is parchment and quill should you want to ask for further renovations. Tomorrow you will have a staff ready to begin dressing the house to your liking. I’ll be next door if you need me,” Faramir smiled, and Aragorn could feel the joy and sadness from him, “My  _ King. _ ”

Aragorn pulled Faramir in for a hug, affection they now showed each other regularly.

“I hope that for most of our lives, we will walk together as friends. Not as King and Steward,” Aragorn whispered, feeling the tear in his own eye, “My path to my destiny has been blessed because I keep encountering people like you on it. And tell Éowyn I said hello.”

A gut lurch, then a smile. Faramir pulled from the King, and walked from the King’s House.  _ His _ house. One he dreamed of sharing with Arwen. Now completely alone, he walked further in, taking in the sitting room, the garden, the sunroom. He walked upstairs and found the adjoining chambers meant for a King and a Queen. Rooms for children, a library (though without books), a study. After his once-though inspection, Aragorn wandered back out to the garden. It was sparse, but the earth was fertile.  _ An apt metaphor for Gondor _ , Aragorn mused.

The house was beautiful, and grand. And lonely. Aragorn nearly called Faramir back so that he was not in that place alone, then he realized why Faramir had left. Faramir was giving him those last moments of solace before the tidal wave hit him. Never again would Aragorn get to truly be free. This was his chance to commune with that new reality. He  _ was becoming King _ … now in nine hours. And the house he stood in was his chance to be alone, to mourn, to accept. Without prompting, Aragorn could feel it. Laying dormant for near his entire life as he fought for his survival. The pain.

He tried to hold down the tears, but he could not. In that empty house, in that empty garden, waiting for him to grow into the expectations that had been pressing on his shoulders since he found his name was Aragorn, not Estel. That he had been bred and raised to become a King, whether he wished it or not. The melancholy that followed his mother through her life was springing out of him. He had never controlled his own destiny. At least when Sauron was the looming enemy, that seemed alright, as his destiny was to protect Middle Earth, but what about now? It did not matter if he did not want it, it was thrust upon him. The Chieftain of the Dúnedain destined (or was it doomed?) to walk from the forest and name himself King.

“Aragorn?” a soft voice broke him from his sobs, and he felt two pairs of hands on his shoulders, and a sense of calm come over him

“We felt your despair. and your loneliness.”  
Faramir and Éowyn were there. Aragorn looked down, and Merry looked up at him too. He realized it was the Hobbit who had spoken.

“If you prefer these moments alone, we understand,” Faramir’s eyes pierced his tear-muddled vision.

“No…” Aragorn looked at the three standing in front of him, concern and healing radiating from all of them. Merry: a halfling pulled out of the safety of his home and thrown into the horrors of war and torture to protect his friends. Éowyn: living with the everyday battles and humiliations of being both overlooked and hunted. Faramir: second son living under the press of the shadow with a father falling slowly into despair. So tuned to grief were they that they seemed called to his.

“Tell us your sorrows Aragorn,” the words were soft, Éowyn’s.

The three in front of him knew him, saw him, had broken inside him because he’d broken inside of them. There were no lies that could be told, no mask that could be worn that would mask his heart from them (or their hearts from him). His moment of weakness, doubting his destiny, projected for all to see. But no. It was not everyone, it was these three. Who would not betray their friend. He stood upon a precipice between his past life and his future life, and he was afraid to jump. And they were there, so he could jump.

“I was never given a choice in my destiny,” Aragorn used their calm to collect his own thoughts, “And now I am here, fulfilling it. Never having had the chance to say no to it.”

It felt vain. Those words from his mouth. He was reluctant to claim his title of  _ King _ and wanted to retreat back into the forest. But he was afraid. He was afraid that becoming King would destine him to forego happiness, which often came from long journeys and communion with Middle Earth in solitude. He did not get to choose the destiny that would make him happiest (wandering and planting with Arwen). He was to be King.

He expected exasperation from the three, but instead he got understanding and love. Yes, of course Faramir and Éowyn understood. They were as much tethered to their destinies as he was. And so, in that empty garden in that empty house, ready to fill with the expectations of him, Aragorn let down his guard and spoke. He let himself be scared. He let himself be angry. He let himself cry and mourn. And somehow in that hour, sorrows he had only ever shared with his own mother or Arwen fled from him. It was an hour of healing Aragorn had not even realized that he needed. Somehow, the gravity of sitting in the King’s vast house had finally broken open the floodgates.

“Don’t fear for your happiness Aragorn,” Merry piped up, “Happiness is not like destiny. Happiness is about looking at what is around you with open eyes.”

Aragorn felt the little Hobbit’s hand on his, “You will be a happy King, because you will have the woman who loves you by your side. And you will remember that your deeds for all those years created the happiness you see in the eyes of your pupils.”

“Happiness is knowing that there are people who love you and know  _ you _ in your life,” Faramir spoke quietly, “Happiness is having places you can seek your solace, and a Steward who will know when you need it.”

Aragorn laughed, “I practically had to beg to get you to agree.”

“Not practically… you  _ did _ beg my liege,” Faramir chuckled in reply, “You gave me the choice of my destiny, even as you wanted it. I cannot give you the freedom you granted me, but I will always find ways to give you respite when your destiny sits too heavily upon your chest.”

“As will I,” Éowyn said, “Trips to Ithilien to speak of business in Rohan will always be a resource should you desire to seek solitude.”

Aragorn realized at that moment that Éowyn and Faramir had spoken of this together. Of finding ways to protect their King. It did not stop the tears that seeped from his eyes, but it changed their nature. He felt safe letting himself feel grief, which he was ashamed even existed. But not with them. They would know his grief for losing his old life existed without his telling them that it existed, because he knew the roots of their deepest sorrows too. How fortunate it had been, he had saved their lives and they had made his life richer. Aragorn sighed and thanked his friends.

“Unfortunately I have your schedule for today Aragorn, and you are needed for the multitude of meetings with envoys and private audiences,” Faramir sighed, “We will leave you. I will see you soon in the Citadel?”

Aragorn nodded, and watched as the three companions left. Their hurried paces told him that his despair had called them away from other tasks. It moved his heart, for he knew that they did so not because he was King, but because he was their friend. Aragorn took one last tour, then headed back out to his apartment. Honorable guests meant that the fine clothing that Faramir had begun procuring for him would need to be put on. Much of the wardrobe was uncomfortable, but he suspected that was in part because of his discomfort with the role of King as much as the clothing being itchy.

Out the door, and the rest of the day passed in a blur. Aragorn’s smile was wide as he greeted the joyful faces of the Dale envoy, the quiet reserve of the small group sent from Harad with peace banners, the war refugees. Word had reached Gondor that Elves were traveling from every corner in Middle Earth they dwelt, converging in Minas Anor. Aragorn often found himself daydreaming of seeing Arwen on her horse next to Elrond. But the elves would not make it before the coronation.

So Aragorn would wait for Arwen, and he would wait for her as King. Oftentimes when Aragorn’s mind wandered, he felt his gut lurch - Faramir’s message to him that his wandering attentions were being noticed. Just as often, Aragorn had to stifle his laughter at Faramir’s signal, which he saw radiate to Faramir too (and Éowyn, when she was in the room).

One hour now. How had time traveled so quickly? How many people had he heard from? How many whispers had he shared with his Steward? He was ready to change out of the itchy clothing, and he would do it in his apartment. Plus, those last moments of freedom, he wanted to be among the people who called him “Strider.”

“Thanks everyone for coming,” it was Faramir’s voice, “The coronation begins in an hour. We will see you on the terrace at sunset.”

Faramir then looked at Aragorn, and tipped his head toward the door. Aragorn did not need to be told twice, and nearly sprinted out. Unbecoming a King, but for the next blessed hour, he was  _ not _ a King. Before he even made it to the apartment, he could smell the pipeweed. Faramir had dug through the Steward’s stores and found a small stock of Longbottom leaf, likely for Gandalf. Every last leaf had been given to the Hobbits, who were working their way through it impressively fast. Aragorn knocked on their door. Small feet shuffled to the door, and it opened, revealing Sam.

“Strider! Oh… um. Elessar my King!” Sam had turned red, and he bowed low.

Aragorn let out a snort, which quickly became a chuckle. No, this would not do. Not them. Not ever. Aragorn’s laughter had drawn the rest of the Hobbits into the entrance.

“You will never need to call me King Sam,” Aragorn kneeled down, “None of you. Ever.”

“That seems ill advised sir,” Sam smiled shyly, “For if we continue to call you Strider, people will be very confused. You already have more names than could be advised for a person.”

Aragorn let out a raucous laugh. A fitting statement from a Hobbit.

“Well I will always call you Strider, especially when you make me laugh so!” Merry had caught Aragorn’s laughter, and reflected them back to him, “Plus it is one less name I needs must remember.”

Aragorn shook his head. These four. The saviors of Middle Earth. Every last one of them.

“I was hoping to spend my last hour of freedom amongst my dearest friends,” Aragorn spoke quietly.

“Then come in! And please share a smoke with us,” Frodo replied, smiling brightly. The shadows lingered in his eyes, but they could not chase away the joy there anymore.

Aragorn joined them, and another knock came to the door, which opened before a Hobbit had answered. Gandalf.

“I see I am not the only one to desire such company and smoke in the hour before sunset,” Gandalf’s eyes twinkled, and he joined the Hobbits and Aragorn. Frodo offered both some of the leaf in their stores, and both pulled pipes out of compartments in their wardrobe. They smoked and told stories and laughed. And Aragorn knew that with the Hobbits he would always be Strider, and hoped that they would always treat him as Strider. Suddenly Gandalf looked out the window.

“I do believe the crowd that is gathering will be expecting a King, so you best change, Aragorn. I will walk with you to the Citadel,” Gandalf’s voice was stern, but his eyes twinkled. Aragorn nodded. It was time.

He walked next door and quickly changed. From formal to regal. If the previous garment felt off, this one felt positively stifling. He felt the panic rising in his blood, he forced it down. A calming presence came over him yet again, and he knew his Steward had come.

“I convinced Mithrandir to let me join you both. Merry reluctantly left with the other Hobbits,” Faramir looked splendid in his own regal ensemble, his hair expertly braided by Éowyn, “We are all here. Let yourself feel your joy for this new beginning Aragorn. Mourning what has ended does not account for what is to come. And I am not sure I have ever fully told you… I think you will be an extraordinary King.”

The words had caught Aragorn off guard. He thought of those council meetings. Those late discussions. Those arguments. The times Éowyn and Faramir had created a united front to disagree with him. He realized it then. He had never considered that Faramir was Steward for the joy of being Aragorn’s Steward, having remembered that haunted night at Imrahil’s when Faramir had agreed to become Steward to protect Gondor  _ from him _ .

“I don’t need to read your thoughts to know what those feelings meant,” Faramir looked at his King, “You proved my choice to be the right choice. I serve you Aragorn, and I am not sure I would serve any other.”

Aragorn gave Faramir another hug.

“Come my King, it is time for me to pass this realm to you.” Faramir grinned. The two walked out the door to see Gandalf standing, smiling.

“I should never worry about the fate of this world seeing whose care it is left in,” Gandalf said, “Oh. Aragorn, I have what you asked for.”

Faramir looked puzzled, Aragorn delighted. Gandalf reached into his robe and pulled out… a circlet. When Éowyn had come to Aragorn to ask about the design changes to the Ithilien seal, Aragorn had been inspired. His new prince required a crown befitting his house and his station. And so he had nearly run to Gimli and Legolas to ask for one more commission. They’d agreed in good humor (though Aragorn suspected he had signed over a year’s worth of Gondor’s mead supply to the Dwarf at some point over the wine of the night…) He handed the crown to Faramir.

“The circlet of Faramir, Prince of Ithilien, of the House of Húrin,” Aragorn said, and felt tears in his eyes. Faramir’s tears.

“This is… incredible,” Faramir marveled, then handed the circlet back to Aragorn, “Little in my life will I cherish more than this. How recently we’ve met Aragorn, and how dear you have become to me. It should remain with you until you crown me. In that, it appears we will be trading crowns.”

Gandalf coughed, “it truly is time now both of you. Or we shall be late.”  
The three finally began their way to the terrace.

“A King is never late, he arrives precisely when he means to,” Aragorn said, Gandalf nearly blurted out a laugh.

“You are neither a wizard, nor are you yet a King.” Gandalf replied, “I see you’ve spent an inordinate amount of time with the Hobbits.”

“Not enough time,” Aragorn replied.

“Hobbits will be a part of Middle Earth as long as the sun still shines,” Gandalf said, “For the Hobbits, the only thing that changes tonight is that they will demand special treatment from the kitchen staff on the King’s orders, rather than the Steward’s.”

“I wouldn’t put it past them to demand it on both our orders,” Faramir spoke, his amusement clear. Gandalf chuckled once more.

Just before they came to the terrace, Faramir took Aragorn’s forearms one last time, “I will see you soon my King.” then turned and rushed away.

Aragorn felt Faramir’s calm overcome him. He had not said  _ and I will be here for you _ , but Aragorn felt the words as if Faramir had spoken them plainly. It was time. Instead it was a day to mourn the past, enjoy the present, and celebrate the future. He had done so with friends, and would do so long into the night. Now he was Elessar King to Gondor, but he would also always be Aragorn, or “Strider” to his friends.

“I’m ready,” Aragorn spoke the words to Gandalf, and for the first time, he meant them.

The ceremony passed as if part of a dream. He spoke his verses, re-appointed Faramir as Steward then addressed the jubilant throngs. Before he knew it, it was over, and he was no longer Aragorn, Chieftain of the Dúnedain, but instead Elessar King. This moment, supposedly the greatest in his life did not feel it. Arwen was not there. Neither was Elrond. A ceremony to fulfill his destiny, and yet it was not for him.

This day was not his. It was Faramir’s, and it was Éowyn’s. It was Imrahil’s, and it was Gimli’s and Legolas’s. It was Ioreth’s and the Warden’s. It was Merry’s and Pippin’s. And especially was it Sam and Frodo’s. It was the villagers’ whose house burned in the fire of the raiders and the Orcs. It was the soldiers’, fallen, injured, and healed. It was everyone’s, and only was it a little bit his. He was their symbol of hope,  _ Estel _ . He was theirs now, not the other way around. It was this, the realization that Aragorn was giving himself to Gondor, not taking Gondor away, that he truly accepted his place as King. His life was for the people of this land.

Then it was done. He was King. Faramir was Prince. And the crowds cleared to lower levels of the city, rechristened “Minas Anor,” to continue their jubilation. The return of the King had come.

Without so much as a pause, it was time for the great feast. One of great celebration, but also one of goodbyes, as Éowyn and Éomer would depart the following day for Rohan. Aragorn smiled brightly, thanked the many well-wishers and great lords and ladies. Faramir by his side, whispering names in his ear if he needed. He’d then given a grand speech, of alliances renewed and territory reclaimed. He spoke of his thanks to the people of Gondor standing firm against the shadow. He spoke of bringing peace and prosperity. And he bowed to his new Prince to speak of his vision for Ithilien. Cheers rang through the room at each new declaration. But Aragorn had one more announcement to make.

“And a final moment of joy and new beginnings for Gondor,” Aragorn raised his glass high in the hall, “Our own Steward and Prince of Ithilien…”  
Aragorn’s gut lurched surprisingly hard. It seemed both Faramir and Éowyn had become aware of what he was about to do. He grinned and projected his feelings of joy to them. He beckoned both to stand.

“...has asked the Lady Éowyn, Shieldmaiden and Princess of Rohan, for her hand in marriage,” Aragorn spoke loudly, feeling what was initially shock change to excitement, “Lady Éowyn has heartily agreed, and will marry Faramir Prince with my and King Éomer’s blessing in Rohan in six weeks time, when we escort the great King Théoden to his final resting place.”

The cheers were near as tremulous as they had been as he was crowned. He knew many in the room were aware of the trothplight, but such an announcement was fitting. His Prince and Steward, marrying a Princess and Wraithbane for  _ love _ . Faramir and Éowyn (who had been conveniently seated next to each other) took hands and smiled. Their joy was Gondor’s joy, and Gondor’s joy was theirs. A tear came to Aragorn’s eye, both for the love he felt between these two of his kindreds, but also for missing Arwen. He hoped his new people would accept her as they had him. A few more speeches passed others’ lips, and supper became dessert, then came the wine. It was at this moment that Imrahil stood up.

“A toast,” Imrahil spoke, cheeks red with drink, “To friends and kin. To the new Dawn. To the Hobbits who gave us this day. And to our King.”

Aragorn had been looking intently at Imrahil all night. They raised their glasses higher, and just before they brought those cups to their lips, he saw it. Imrahil’s index finger had brushed his nose. The game was on.


	40. Imrahil 5

**_Coronation day.  
_ ** A month may seem a short amount of time, but to Imrahil, it felt like waking up from a long dream. In part, this new life was thanks to Sam and Frodo’s bravery, but there was more. Rohan was no longer a land of allies beyond the mountains, it was the savior of Gondor. He shook his head at his prior views of the people of Rohan: as horse lords from the middle men, below the Númenorean heritage of Gondor. And he was ashamed, knowing now the depth of honor and nobility that ran through their veins. Imrahil had fallen in love with Éowyn and Éomer as surely as his kin had. His appointment as ambassador to Rohan had raised a few eyebrows in Gondor. Their prince?

_ Yes _ , he thought proudly,  _ Gondor must see Rohan as its kin, as I see them. _

He’d watched Lothíriel and Éomer fall in love. He’d watched the shadows under Faramir’s eyes fade, being replaced with the healthy glow of love for Éowyn. He’d spoken to the Rohirric soldiers that had been taken in as welcome guests of the city. He’d visited Théoden in Rath Dínen to say his thanks to the fallen King. Every story he heard made him more excited for his appointment, a new chapter in his life. And he suspected that he would get to watch his grandchildren grow up in the land of the horse lords. Yet, not a word from either his daughter nor the young King… it was odd. Imrahil could see the love in both of their eyes, and both knew that he would assent with joy in his heart, but the question had not yet reached his ears. And now, they were but a day from saying their goodbyes to the golden siblings (albeit temporarily).

In this state of contemplation Imhrahil stood watching his new King be crowned by his beloved nephew. Then he watched his nephew, a Steward beyond the talents of his father, be crowned Prince of Ithilien by the King, and he felt the affection between the two men so strong it was. He watched as the King, the Steward, and Mithrandir then kneeled to the bewildered and delighted Hobbits, declaring them friends of Gondor who had leave to wander the lands freely and with honor. He cheered with the throngs, declaring Minas Tirith was Minas Anor anew. He looked at his children’s faces, and saw that Lothíriel was not the only one with tears in her eyes. He chanced a glance over at Éomer and Éowyn, holding hands, and saw tears also touched both their cheeks. Celebration then burst all around them, the climax of joy after so many generations of despair. Imrahil thought on his beloved wife, praying she was able to see this moment from her place beyond Arda.

When the crowning was over, Imrahil made his way to the great hall to feast. Lothíriel and he had been planning for that feast for at least two weeks. Two weeks of desperate pleas from Faramir for information, but none would crack even to Faramir’s far sight and intense interrogation. Lothíriel had been the mastermind, and at last count, there were thirteen in the game. And what a purse they would claim! Amroth oysters from himself, Longbottom leaf from Pippin, Brandywine Sweetfish from Merry, truffles from Éomer, wild strawberries from Éowyn, cured boar from Gimli, a jar of honey from Sam, a salted caramel from Lothíriel, sturgeon caviar from Erchirion, greatfish lox from Amrothos, a bushel of apples from Frodo, 100-year sweet mead from Legolas, and hot chocolate from Aragorn. Imrahil and Lothíriel had decided to wait until the wine and spirits had started flowing, to avoid offending their honorable guests. So after the speeches, and hooting at his betrothed nephew and soon-to-be niece, Imrahil lifted his glass.

“A toast,” Imrahil spoke, “To friends and kin. To the new Dawn. To the Hobbits who gave us this day. And to our King.”

Then he signaled, touching his index finger to his nose. A clattering of spoons followed, and he saw that it was not thirteen but  _ fourteen _ wearing spoons. Faramir had not only cracked someone, he had joined in! Imrahil looked around the rest of the room, and though there were whispers, it was clear that they were amused whispers. He and Lothíriel had been right, drink would loosen the room enough that the game would not cause too much of a scandal.

“Add a bottle of Ithilien wine to the purse Ada,” Lothíriel grinned under her spoon.

“Bless that shieldmaiden, I never thought I would see the day,” Imrahil boomed.

Suddenly, a tentative tap came to Imrahil’s shoulder. He knew who it was from the color of red Lothíriel’s cheeks turned.

“Éomer!” Imrahil stood to clap him on the back.

“I would like to have a word with you,” Éomer was twisting his hands, he was nervous.

“Of course, let’s withdraw to the terrace,” Imrahil replied, but his stomach had filled with butterflies. Was this it? Was he to have his son-in-law?

They walked close, projecting seriousness so as to avoid getting caught up in other conversations. It worked.

“I needs must ask you for something unconventional,” Éomer was red, but hope blazed in his eyes.

“Ask away,” Imrahil replied, now taking Éomer’s words and nerves in. It was just unexpected enough that Imrahil began to feel fear.

“Well… I would like your permission to marry Lothíriel. But..” Éomer started. (There was a but?) “...not yet. Um. I have asked her to come to Rohan with you. Because… because… I love her but…”

What could possibly have happened in that month to make the King dither so about his daughter… but he did just say that he loved her. Imrahil remained silent. He’d learned to let Éomer find his words.

“But… I don’t want her to be tethered to me until... until she  _ knows _ in her heart that her love extends to Rohan… and its people. I watched my mother fade away when my father died. She had only enough love for him. I won’t have any, even one I love with my entire being be bound to me to suffer that fate.” Éomer’s words became smoother and less stunted as he continued, “Lothíriel knows of all of this. I will wait for her. She will come to Rohan and I hope the she will fall in love. And the moment she is ready for me to ask for her hand, so I will…”

“The fate of Finduilas,” Imrahil stuttered, “You are making sure my daughter does not fade away as my beloved sister did.”

Imrahil often assumed that the children of Rohan were out of surprises, and then they would spring things like this on him. Éomer was thoughtful, honorable, and showed a care so deep for Lothíriel that he was willing to let her go to ensure her happiness.

“And you tell me in secret to remove the expectations that come with a public betrothal,” Imrahil smiled.

Éomer nodded, “Lothíriel comes to Rohan because I ask. And because I love her. None will I consider other than her.”

Imrahil pulled Éomer in for a hug. He did not let go, even as he felt tears come to his eyes. They were tears of mourning for his sister, but also tears of happiness for this man, his likely future son in law.

“You both have my blessing. As you likely knew,” Imrahil said.

“Good. I am honor-bound now to your family. And I hope Lothíriel loves Rohan as much as I,” Éomer’s eyes were full of hope, the young boy was still inside of him.

“If Rohan’s people are anything like you Éomer, Lothíriel will be theirs in a fortnight,” Imrahil laughed. Then he caught the glint of silver. He had forgotten that both were wearing their spoons. Neither had yet lost the bet.

“What?” Éomer looked puzzled.

“A serious conversation whilst wearing the most fashionable of silver,” Imrahil replied.

At this Éomer also let out an unbridled laugh, nearly knocking the spoon from his nose.

“Shall we head back in to our families?” Imrahil laughed.

“Yes, let’s,” Éomer replied, light in his eyes.

As they returned to their seats, Lothíriel (spoon still on nose) turned to Imrahil.

“So..?” Lothíriel whispered, her cheeks still slightly red.

“I should like you to join me in Rohan darling daughter,” Imrahil beamed, “I should need a cultural attaché to explore the ends of Rohan and its people, as I tend to the business of Gondor. I do believe that the King has offered to act as host.”

Lothíriel pulled Imrahil in for a hug. And so swift was her motion that both heard the clinking of a spoon. Imrahil’s spoon had fallen from his nose.

Raucous jeering came from all corners of the room, from game-players and revelers alike. He looked and saw he was at least not the first to have lost his spoon. Both Gimli and Pippin sat spoonless. Gimli appeared to be in good humor, though Pippin’s face was long.

“Containing drink and containing joy are quick to drop spoons!” Imrahil called, and was met with both laughter and smiles.

“I think it is time to make this game more interesting,” Lothíriel’s musical voice drew all attention to her, “Come and let us dance to the new Dawn and to the return of the King! And as this is the reveler’s dance, the rule is for every number, we drink.”

More cheering erupted, and with Lothíriel’s nod, musicians stationed in the back of the room began playing.

“It seemed this game could go on forever if it were a battle of wills Ada,” Lothíriel whispered, “So it seemed prudent to quicken the game with a battle of grace, agility and stamina!”

Imrahil laughed even harder. His daughter had thought through every detail. Those playing the game had arisen from their seats, as had many of the revelers. And the dance started. Imrahil sat to the side, offering to “referee,” though mostly he wanted to watch. Éowyn and Faramir danced together, a vision of grace and agility, but the drink was starting to make both wobbly. Legolas danced perfectly, the spoon balanced on his nose without effort, and drink did not appear to affect him. Suddenly, Gimli stormed up to Legolas and pulled the spoon off of his nose.

“Elvenfolk have an unfair advantage!” Gimli exclaimed.  
Imrahil tensed, but saw that Legolas had started laughing merrily along with the dwarf.

“Good Gimli, I must be sufficiently drunk not to have noticed the intent of your approach, so my spoon has been effectively felled!” Legolas exclaimed, joy in his voice rivalling any man in the room.  _ An unusual elf indeed. _

Imrahil then noticed that Merry (who lost his spoon in the reveler’s dance) whispering conspiratorially with Pippin. They were looking at Aragorn, and Imrahil suspected they had been inspired. With a nod, the two Hobbits charged toward the King and jumped upon him, successfully dislodging his spoon. Guards at the door tensed, but at the sound of laughter from King and Hobbit alike, relaxed and joined in the laughter. Erchirion and Amrothos had wrestled their spoons off of each other. And so there were now six: Éowyn and Faramir, Éomer, Frodo, Sam, and Lothíriel.

Lothíriel looked to be planning something; Imrahil recognized that look anywhere.

“Revelers!” whatever scheme she’d come up with, she was putting it to action, “We have seen the chaste holding of hands between my cousin and the beautiful Lady Éowyn. And yet, they have been trothplighted for a month. I fear I am unsatisfied with their declaration of love. So I would like to see a  _ kiss _ !”

Éowyn and Faramir turned and looked at Lothíriel, who grinned maliciously. It was genius. Neither Éowyn nor Faramir would dare demand a kiss between Lothíriel and Éomer, so she was safe from that revenge. Faramir shook his head, then shrugged. He pulled Éowyn in and kissed her, the clanking of two spoons was their price for their love. The entire room erupted yet again with laughter and cheers. Down to four. Imrahil wondered what Lothíriel had in mind for the rest of them.

Lothíriel looked over then at Sam and Frodo, still dancing (this time with Merry and Pippin), happiness beaming from their faces. Spoons still firmly on their noses. Lothíriel then looked at Éomer, before striding right up to him. So rapid was her approach she nearly caught Éomer off guard. With an intense look at him, she took the spoon off of his nose. Then she took the spoon off of her own.

“Such a game should have but two contenders,” Lothíriel turned to Sam and Frodo, and fell to her knee, “As we could not celebrate your bravery in the depths of your despair, so we will cheer for your victory in your peak of joy.”

The room had gone silent. Lothíriel had set the game, at least in part, as an homage to Sam and Frodo. She’d left them to compete together, winners both. They looked puzzled, thoughtful.

“The game is not over yet. Sam! Frodo! Keep dancing and drinking, and we shall cheer you on to your prize!” Lothíriel exclaimed, “Hoo-rah!”

“Hoo-rah!” the room whooped in response, raising their glasses to the Hobbits.

Quickly, what was embarrassment turned back toward competition, and all joined in. Dancing and drinking, drinking and dancing. And still the little Hobbits wore their spoons. Soon the dancing became faster, more complex, and still the Hobbits wore their spoons. Finally, when the Ballad of the Shieldmaiden started playing, Sam tripped, and the game was won. Imrahil was sure that he saw Sam’s slightest glance at Frodo before the trip, and wondered if Sam had done so intentionally.

And so the room cheered, and Frodo won the spoils. The congratulations given to the Hobbits were loaded. So many had wanted to thank the two, and did not know how. Lothíriel, as always, had figured out the way.

Once the game was done, most started filing from the great hall, back to their apartments and quarters, or to continue the celebration. Éowyn and Faramir walked hand in hand. Amrothos and Erchirion headed down into the lower city to continue the party. Éomer looked longingly at Lothíriel, bowed to Imrahil, and was on his way.

“Quite the game daughter,” Imrahil threw his arm around his daughter’s shoulder, “I’ve no idea how much of that was choreographed, but it was perfect.”

“Little Ada. Honestly? I thought it would come down to Éowyn and me,” Lothíriel replied, taking Imrahil’s arm, “It just seemed… right.”

“It was… right,” Imrahil replied, “As is your decision to come with me to Rohan.”

“Should I have insisted he ask me?” Lothíriel looked intently into Imrahil’s eyes, and he could read her worry in them.

“He loves you so deeply that he’s willing to let you go rather than watch you fade in your guilded cage,” Imrahil squeezed Lothíriel’s hand, “I wish you’d gotten to meet your aunt. She had your wit. Nothing haunts me so much as watching my dear sister wither away in the White City, under the oppression of shadow and Denethor’s love.”

“I doubt that will happen to me,” Lothíriel replied.

“You have been given the chance to make sure mir tel’ear,’ a gift not granted to my darling sister,” Imrahil said, “I’ve no doubt that the moment you  _ know _ , he will ask.”

“Are you worried some will not understand?” Lothíriel asked, and now Imrahil could hear the edge to her voice.

“Does such a thing matter to you so much dear Loth?” Imrahil asked, he had not considered the courtly ramifications of Lothíriel, unbetrothed, coming to Rohan.

“…A bit, yes.” Lothíriel replied.

“Then we will make it clear that both the King and the Steward insisted. And that you and  _ Éowyn _ have grown extremely close, and that you should like to stay with her, teaching her about Gondor as she teaches you of Rohan,” Imrahil replied, there was no question in his mind that all would agree.

“And what of the time I will be spending with the King?” Lothíriel’s eyes sparkled.

Imrahil sighed, “You will have six weeks to conspire and plan. I believe that your cousin and new kin will assist you. I as your father would rather not know…”

Lothíriel laughed, “Well… it appears that I needs must begin preparing for my new role as cultural attaché for the ambassador.”

“You will make a beautiful queen,” Imrahil whispered, and then two were silent as they walked back to his house.

“Goodnight Ada,” Lothíriel hugged him, “Today was a day for joy, and so tomorrow will be a day for sadness.”

“You will see them again Loth, I promise,” Imrahil replied, and both went to their rooms to find their sleep, for the first time in their lifetimes, the subjects of Kings.


	41. Faramir 10

**_Coronation night  
_ ** “So min elskede, who did you break?” Éowyn whispered into Faramir’s ear from her perch on his shoulder.

“Loth,” Faramir replied, a grin on his face.

“I marvel at your skill,” Éowyn replied, nuzzling his neck.

Faramir laughed, if only she knew. There was no way in the past he would have successfully broken Lothíriel’s resolve. Éowyn made him lighter, more joyful, wanting to be a part of the game. Over the course of the month, the stern face of Denethor had stopped hovering over his head. Replaced with the loving gaze of Éowyn, the protective respect of Éomer, the delight of the Hobbits, the relief and joy of Imrahil and Lothíriel, and of course, the reverence of Aragorn. When the memory of being engulfed in fire crept back into his conscious mind, he thought of Éowyn sleeping. He thought of her steady breath, her serene face, the glow that seemed to come from inside of her.

Four weeks was all that it took to go from wondering if his father had been right to desire him dead instead of his brother to feeling the joy for the life ahead of him. It was the difference between being a second son and being a Prince, between wondering if his father would sell his hand for an alliance and choosing his own for love. And what a love it was. When he’d seen Éowyn cross the garden in the House of Healing, he felt love blossom. When he asked for her hand, his love for her had taken root. And yet, he looked back on the love he felt then as if it were a shell of the real thing, so profoundly had his love for her grown. That he would spend the rest of his life with her was a gift beyond reckoning.

They’d taken to spending near all their free time together. Faramir consulted Éowyn frequently as new and challenging tasks came to his desk. Planning the coronation had been a test of Faramir’s patience and his skill. Éowyn advised him, spoke on behalf of Rohan, and shared the load (in addition to her regular shifts and studies in the House of Healing). And the nights and afternoons together. Éowyn’s tentative touches were no longer tentative, projecting both her desire and her familiarity. And while the electric sensation that quivered under his skin had faded in intensity, it was now accompanied with an overwhelming feeling of warmth. Faramir had finally given in to closing his eyes and picturing their wedding night in its full detail, made all the more enjoyable, as he knew she did the same.

During the nights, as Éowyn slept, Faramir read correspondence, or carefully wrote out letters. On the rare nights that Éowyn stirred, he dropped his work and whispered to her until she knew where she was and whom she was with. Nightmares still haunted her. Faramir hated seeing the fear in her eyes at realizing she was asleep with a man in her bed, before the relief and love flooded her when she recognized  _ who _ she was in bed with. Often after a Gríma dream, Éowyn would pull Faramir’s body to her’s and kiss him fiercely. Faramir swore she was burning away the nightmares with those touches, and it broke his heart, yet also grew his love for her.

Faramir and Éowyn had avoided talking about her journey back to Rohan. They both understood how essential it was for her to return, but Faramir did not want her know how sick with worry he was. He had almost asked Aragorn to accompany her. Twice. What if the ghosts of Meduseld returned? What if Éowyn was haunted by nightmares? What if Éowyn was haunted by  _ the real person _ ? Éomer had promised that if Gríma came crawling back, he would cut down the Worm. Éowyn had learned dagger work from him. Still, it did not feel enough. He remembered her kiss to his forehead as he’d settled to sleep just two days ago. The fear in her eyes tore at him.

Her ghosts scared him far more than his own. He still had fire dreams, something he never thought he would be rid of. He could manage without Éowyn’s comforting hand for six weeks. But that he could not protect her where her memories made her the most vulnerable twisted his gut. He pulled Éowyn closer as they finished their walk to her apartment. Their last night together before she said goodbye, before she rode back to the place of her birth to help her brother find his feet and start his reign. It was necessary, and yet, he wondered if they would regress, back in the environments that brought them to the brink of wishing for their own deaths.

When they were through the doorway, Éowyn leaned into Faramir and kissed him. It was a kiss that told him she was thinking much of what he was.

“I don’t want to leave,” Éowyn whispered, kissing Faramir’s cheek and neck.

“I don’t want you to leave either,” Faramir whispered back.  
Éowyn took Faramir’s hand and walked him into her bedroom.

“Tonight as you get your sleep, I fear all I will be able to do is watch you,” Faramir saw that Éowyn and his staff had provided for him less formal clothing. It seemed that their arrangement was a better known secret than he would have liked…

“I will not be sleeping tonight, not in the last hours of our time together,” Éowyn’s words were serious, and Faramir recognized the tone as one not to argue with, “Please sit so I can unbraid your hair, my  _ Prince _ .”

“It does not feel real,” Faramir sat in Éowyn chair and felt her hands begin working the complex elven braid out of his hair, “As if tomorrow I will wake up from this dream to find myself in Ithilien trying to stop the oncoming charge of the Shadow. Denethor ever increasing his madness under the press of Sauron and his stone.”

“I wonder if I will wake up in Meduseld and find that my family are dead and I am the slave-wife of Wormtongue, watching Orcs overrun our beautiful land,” Éowyn spoke softly, “Every moment I wish I could stay here, in the House of Healing, with you, even if this place and you are a dream.”

Éowyn’s hands had freed his hair, and she had grabbed the mother of pearl comb Lothíriel had given her to run through his hair. But he couldn’t wait, not when those were the images haunting her. He turned to her, putting his hands gently onto the small of her back.

“I am no dream, and will do whatever you need to keep that place from pulling you under,” Faramir looked up into her eyes, “We may have but hours left, but in these hours let’s create memories that will make the next six weeks of waiting fly on wings of an eagle.”

Éowyn raised her eyebrow, and it was only then that Faramir understood what she thought he was implying. His gut lurched and he could feel the color rise in his cheeks. At his reaction, Éowyn snickered.

“I certainly hope that thoughts of the memories we will make on our wedding night will not cause such a blush in your cheeks,” a smile had broken through.

“I fear it may, but I will push through,” Faramir pulled Éowyn closer, so close he could feel the warmth of her on his face, and Faramir then did something he’d never done. Faramir leaned completely into Éowyn, laying his head on her chest. She had done it so often to him, but he had never done it. Éowyn inhaled, and he could now hear her heart beat. He also felt the soft cushion of her breasts against his face. Faramir let the soft sigh of his fiancée and the building desire in him overpower the shadow memory of his father. Denethor was now the dream, and Éowyn was the reality.

“Let me just soak this moment up a bit longer,” Faramir grinned and Éowyn laughed.

“And is it everything you thought it would be?” Éowyn whispered, still stroking the back of Faramir’s neck.

“I would say that it is worth about one week of the six we must be apart,” Faramir replied.

“So tonight, we are to find memories for all six weeks,” Éowyn’s hands then combed through Faramir’s hair, catching on the tangles.

Faramir finally leaned back, “deal.”

Faramir burned the memory of Éowyn’s breasts on his cheek into his mind, on feeling their soft give, then he let his desire take him; thinking of their wedding night when he would get put his hands or his mouth on them. He thought of the bliss of his skin and hers, intertwined in their bed. Of letting his hands have as much liberty to touch her as she had to touch him.

“Now, turn around and let me comb your hair. And I want to see how your bruises are healing. I swear Éomer takes a perverse pleasure in hitting the same places over and over,” Éowyn turned Faramir, but not before placing a kiss on the back of his neck.

As Éowyn combed, Faramir closed his eyes. Her fingers through his hair was one of his favorite sensations. He had been tempted to ask her to braid his hair every day if only to guarantee that he would get her fingers combing through it every evening. Éowyn also always rubbed soothing salve into his chest, but Faramir always insisted on taking care of his bruised thighs and legs himself. Maybe not tonight.

“For the second week…” Faramir could feel mischievous glee as the idea formed, “Perhaps tonight I should ask for you to apply the salve to  _ all _ my bruises.”  
Éowyn paused in her combing out Faramir’s hair and walked to face him. Her eyes twinkled with thrill.

“Are you sure min elskede?” Éowyn watched him intently.

“Yes,” Faramir was sure. It was their last night before they faced their demons alone. It was a night to create memories.

An impish smile developed on Éowyn’s face, matched by one Faramir felt form on his own face. He had longed to have her touch the whole of him. And her gentle hands rubbing the salve into his skin was nothing short of bliss, even as it became routine. Éowyn’s hands had become more practiced on his skin, and so applying the salve had a healer’s touch. Éowyn then often caressed Faramir’s skin, working her fingers over his muscles, raking through the hair on his chest, then tracing his scars.

“Then a memory we will make it,” Éowyn’s eyes twinkled, “I will go get changed. You should also change out of your formal clothes.”

Éowyn swept from the bedroom and into her dressing room. Faramir smiled as his eyes followed her. She looked a vision in her formal gown, another of his mother’s. Éowyn was as tall as Faramir’s mother, and it seemed Finduilas’s clothes fit Éowyn as if they were made for her. Faramir had yet to tell Éowyn that he wanted her to have everything of his mother’s. Tonight was the right time to do so. It was worth at least a few of the days apart, getting to share the love of his mother with his future wife, the light of his life. Faramir then turned to the clothes on Éowyn’s bed, letting a smirk escape his face.  _ Be sure to thank your staff thoroughly for their care, and for their discretion _ , Faramir thought. Yes, he would definitely be sharing some items from Denethor’s stores with them.

Faramir was finished changing far before Éowyn, and he had half a mind to ask her if she needed assistance. He wondered if he had made an error in not providing her maids to help, but Éowyn often insisted she liked doing it herself. Faramir wondered if that was because of Rohirric tradition, or because she was so fearful of spies in Edoras. Faramir frowned at the thought. Gríma’s poison. He hoped the fall of the shadow had drawn out at least some of the poison there. Six weeks.  _ Six weeks. _ Faramir sighed. No, he could not go with her to Rohan. And she could not remain in Gondor.

The door clicked, breaking Faramir away from his thoughts. Éowyn walked through the door, and Faramir’s breath stopped. Éowyn had taken down her hair, which was now just loosely braided. And she was in bedclothes. As with her white gowns, Éowyn’s slip shimmered with an inner light. It was made of a material much softer and thinner than dresses or robes, and was the slightest bit transparent. Faramir saw the silhouettes and curves under the material, igniting both his desire and his reverence for the ethereal woman he had been so lucky to give his heart. Éowyn had never worn bedclothes before, as both knew that it was scandalous enough that Faramir visited her each night.

“You’re blushing min elskede,” Éowyn remarked. She was blushing too.

“I… I… have no words Éowyn. You are beautiful,” Faramir felt his heart race, he could not take his eyes off of her, “I pray to the Valar that your brother need not call on you tonight.”

Éowyn laughed, “I believe Loth will be distraction enough tonight. Do not forget that we are not the only ones robbed of one another’s company when the Rohirrim return to Rohan.”

Faramir raised himself from Éowyn’s bed, and walked to her. Something in Éowyn’s glance encouraged him to let himself look at her, to see what was underneath her bedclothes, to think of touching her skin. He swam in those images, in those sensations that he so craved.

“Touch me,” Éowyn’s voice was a whisper. Faramir knew this was not an offer, but a request.

Faramir let his hand find its way to Éowyn’s shoulder, and he traced his fingers down her arm, to her hand. He then moved his hand onto her waist, letting his thumb graze her hip bone, then he ran his hand gently over Éowyn’s stomach, feeling hard muscles under a soft forgiving layer. The core of a shieldmaiden, intermingled softness and stone. Faramir paused, looked into Éowyn’s eyes, and saw their intensity. She wanted him to go farther, using the fire in her own eyes to burn away the apprehension in his. Faramir’s hand trembled slightly as he moved it upward, tracing Éowyn’s belly button, then he let his hand drift farther up, feeling her chest heave rapidly at his touch, to her sternum. Faramir looked at Éowyn again, but he had frozen there. Oh how he wanted explore those glorious breasts. But he was not sure he could bring himself to do it. Suddenly Éowyn’s hand was on his, and her eyes were in his. He felt his hand gently move under her guidance, her breastplate giving way to the softness of her breast.

Faramir closed his eyes, taking in every sensation. He felt her rapid breathing, heard the soft sighs as she exhaled. He felt the smooth material of Éowyn’s night gown, and finally he felt the blissful feel of her breast, perfectly fit to his hand. Faramir opened his eyes, and saw that Éowyn had a look of lust on her face. She  _ was enjoying this _ . Faramir leaned into her, finding her mouth, and kissed her, matching her desire with his own. He let his hand flex, squeezing Éowyn’s remarkable gift, causing her to shudder, then giggle. Faramir’s gut reaction would have had him pull his hand away from this forbidden bliss, but he did not.

“Min elskede?” Faramir searched Éowyn’s face.

“I could not have imagined how good this feels,” Éowyn whispered.

Faramir felt Éowyn’s laughter come to his own mouth. Somehow in that moment, tentatively exploring the edges of desire, pushing beyond the boundaries of appropriate and into scandalous, there was only relief. Relief that Gríma’s hunt had not extinguished Éowyn’s ability to enjoy a lover’s touch. Relief that even now, with his hand on Éowyn’s chest, naught but flimsy material between his hand and her nakedness, still Faramir had control. He realized at that moment that there did not exist a moment in desire, in bliss, that he was not entirely in control.

“I want to pull you in and kiss you, for this is worth near two weeks of memories,” Faramir leaned his head down to let his nose touch Éowyn’s forehead.

“Can you… keep touching me?” Éowyn’s face was pink. Faramir could not have asked her to say any words more perfect than those words.

“Yes.” Faramir replied, finding the words hard to force from his mouth.

It could have been minutes and it could have been hours. But in those moments where Faramir was finally letting his hands find Éowyn, letting his eyes drink her in, letting his ears tune in to her moans of his name, letting his mouth both taste her and express his own bliss, time had stopped. Both seemed to understand the boundaries of their play, and Faramir had no desire to press forward beyond those boundaries.

“Okay, my turn,” Éowyn pulled them apart, and took Faramir’s hands in her own, “You are still bruised, and I take pride in my healing skill.”

Faramir nodded, and shrugged off his tunic. The moment hit him heavily. Éowyn in bed clothes and he shirtless. If Éomer barged in in this moment, Faramir was fairly certain he would be separated from his head. And yet… four weeks had been a revelation. Éomer was playful and thoughtful. He had improved his swordsmanship so far that he was near a match for either Faramir or Aragorn, who had joined their sparring practices. And he adored Lothíriel. Éowyn had expressed frustration with her brother, and Faramir had watched Loth fret endlessly about Éomer’s hesitation to touch her. Faramir had not wanted to say he understood, but he could imagine the imprint that would have been left on him seeing a demon of a man nearly break Éowyn. Even just knowing that it happened raised his blood pressure. That Éomer had protected Éowyn in that moment just made Faramir love his future brother-in-law all the more.

“Where have your thoughts gone?” Éowyn had grabbed the soothing salve.

“To your brother,” Faramir replied, eliciting a laugh from Éowyn.

“I recommend you not think on my brother in these moments,” Éowyn continued laughing, “I certainly do not!”

Faramir threw his head back has he laughed. But at seeing the look that had appeared on Éowyn’s face, he abruptly stopped laughing. Her face was full of resolve, of mischief, of lust. Faramir sat on the bed, as was their routine, but Éowyn pulled him back to his feet. She stepped closely in to him, looking at a particularly angry bruise on Faramir’s left side. But instead of taking soothing salve onto her fingers, Éowyn kneeled, until she was face to face with the bruise. It was only then that Faramir realized what she would do. He held his breath. Another memory, another unexplored sensation of bliss. He could feel the thrill of the anticipation course through his veins. His heartbeat increased, as did his breathing. Éowyn looked up at him one more time, checking in. Faramir gave her the slightest of smiles, enough for her to know. Yes. He wanted to feel her lips on that bruise.

Éowyn smiled back, then brought her lips to his naked skin, touching them gently to the bruise. It was an explosion of bliss, the pain blunted by the utter electric sensation. Éowyn’s lips were soft and moist, and she let them linger. A groan escaped his mouth before he could help himself.  _ Where had she learned to do this? _ Éowyn then took a dollop of soothing salve into her hand and worked it into the bruise. And so it was, each bruise on Faramir’s upper body got a tender and lustful kiss, followed by soothing salve. For the second time that night, time stopped. Once all the bruises were tended, Faramir looked lovingly at Éowyn, about to thank her for those moments. But Éowyn had one more kiss to deliver. She leaned to his nipple, and brought her mouth to it. Faramir nearly passed out so intense was the sensation. It was the electricity of all the kisses combined, reverberating from his toes to his neck to his fingertips… to his loins. His knees went weak, and the desire that had been slowly burning in his chest consumed the whole of him.

“Min… elskede…” Faramir breathed out the words, he was not sure how as all words seemed to have escaped him.

“It felt… good?” Éowyn asked.  
Faramir thought Éowyn was playing with that question, but one look at the earnestness in her eyes, he realized she was serious.

“I can’t… put into… words.  _ Yes _ , it feels…  _ good _ ,” Faramir was still having trouble recovering from the sensation still echoing through his body.

There was an unusual smile on Éowyn’s face, halfway between wanton and accomplished. Faramir wanted to ask her how she had known to do that, but something stayed his question. Something told him that this was another of Éowyn’s gifts, like the remarkable seals she made for him. He did not want to step on her surprise.

“Now, to finish your bruises,” Éowyn looked down at Faramir’s pants, “To complete the memory.”

Faramir raised an eyebrow, was Éowyn going to kiss those bruises too? No. She had not so much as touched the skin of his thighs, it was too much.

“I think it best if you only use your hands on these bruises,” Faramir grabbed his tunic, and shrugged it back on. He would not be so near to naked in this room with her. Not until they were properly wed.

Éowyn laughed, “My how your mind wanders Faramir, I am a lady after all!”

Faramir rolled his eyes, he loved her so much. Moments after kissing him like… like  _ that _ and now she was teasing him about his wanton mind. He looked back down at his pants, sighed, and took them off. Another first on that night. Éowyn paused, clearly taking in the sight of his legs. Faramir could feel the color coming to his face. He felt shy. No woman had ever seen him in this state of undress, smallclothes all that separated Éowyn from the bodily manifestation of his desire. In but six weeks, she would be his wife, and smallclothes would no longer shield her.

“Faramir,” Éowyn was looking at his groin, seeing what the smallclothes could not quite hide, “I heal men in all states of undress. I have no fear of what lies beneath your clothes. In fact, I marvel at it. Our wedding night is one I await breathlessly, but also with my eyes open. Desire is not your shame. I want to see your desire for me, so please never hide it.”

He did not know how she knew. How she read it on his face. Yet the moment she said it, a weight lifted off of him. Like so many times before, she shone light into his dark caverns and he found that nothing scary lurked there. He was not afraid he would lose control, and neither was she. That part of him, that he had always been taught was a weapon used against women was seen by her as something to celebrate.

“I fear as with your soothing my other bruises, it will not be the same,” Faramir replied, the only words he could think to speak.

“No, perhaps not,” Éowyn said, “Yet somehow I do not see that as being a problem. Now. Let me do my healing work…. What has my brother done to you? You’re near more bruised along your thighs than your chest!”

“Aragorn delivered a few too,” Faramir replied, “And I fear he may have taught Éomer attacks more difficult to parry without taking a blow.”

Éowyn shook her head, “When I get to Rohan, I shall tell my brother that every bruise,  _ every one, _ was under my care. So he should watch where he puts them.”

Faramir laughed, and as he did, Éowyn went to work. Her hands so close to his groin had certainly stirred his desire, but the moments passed as ones between those who were familiar rather than the frenzied thrill of first touches. Éowyn’s hands were truly ones of healers, gentle and deliberate. And soon the angriest bruises had been soothed.

“There is one more,” Faramir admitted.

“Where?” Éowyn asked, narrowing her eyes.

Faramir stood, then turned to face away from Éowyn. He was not sure  _ how _ Éomer had landed such a blow there, but there it was. A truly angry bruise just below his left buttock. Éowyn snorted, then composed herself.

“I can tend to that one…” Faramir mumbled, partly hoping Éowyn would let him, partly hoping Éowyn would not, but mostly barely containing laughter attempting to escape his lips.

“I will take care of it. If only to remind my dear brother that I put my hands where his blows land,” Éowyn said.

Faramir could feel her presence just behind him, he could smell the soothing salve and listened to her take some into her hand. Then he felt her fingers on his thigh, where his cheek met his leg. This time, there was no escaping the electricity that exploded from their contact. His heart rate spiked, and he held his breath. But he could not keep the moan from escaping his lips, hard as he tried.

“I… No  _ one _ has ever touched me…” Faramir stuttered, again lost for words.

“I need to lift your smallclothes the slightest bit,” Éowyn made a valiant effort to keep her words stern and serious, but they were laden with desire, Faramir smiled.

“Lift away,” Faramir smiled, feeling the gentlest tug on his smallclothes.

His amusement grew as he heard Éowyn inhale. He knew the boundary of Éomer’s bruise, and was half relieved, and half disappointed it was contained to his thigh. He felt his smallclothes drop, and knew Éowyn had deemed Faramir’s bruise tended. Éowyn retreated to wash the soothing salve from her hands. Faramir returned his pants to their rightful place, then sat back on the bed. Éowyn returned shortly after.

“You really are a marvel min elskede,” Éowyn grinned.

When she said things like this, Faramir thought he must have died in his fever sleep and found eternal bliss. Yet, he knew this was not a dream. This woman was going to be his  _ wife _ , a woman who entered his dreams to rescue him from his nightmares. A woman who  _ understood _ his sorrow and did not begrudge him his pain. A woman he relished picturing on their wedding night. Who felt the same about him. Her love was a gift from the Valar. And she felt the same. Faramir grabbed her hand, and pulled her to him.

“We have two memories left to make min elskede,” Faramir kissed Éowyn’s hands, “So here is one from me… I have but the faintest memories of my mother, and all I can recall of her brings me sorrow. Yet… you came into my life. I gave you her mantle, and something changed. It’s as if I know her mind, as if I can feel her smiling down at me, at us. I want you to have everything that was my mother’s. To be passed to our daughters. Please say yes…”

Éowyn looked into Faramir’s eyes, saw his pleading, and smiled, “Faramir… are you sure?”

There it was. The self-doubt. He knew it would always be there. The last mean remnants of Gríma’s poison. Éowyn still believed she was unworthy. It saddened him, but every day he would work to make her see herself as he (and frankly, everyone else) saw her.

“As sure as I was when I asked you to become my wife Éowyn,” Faramir replied, his voice steady as he could make it. He willed his love into her, his certainty.

Éowyn took the last step to him and hugged him tightly, “I will cherish every pebble of Finduilas’s legacy.”

“In this moment Éowyn, you have given me my mother back,” Faramir could not contain his words, “I have the strength to go through her effects and mourn her as I never have been able to. You shine light on that place of sorrow for me.”

The look of doubt in Éowyn’s eyes had not yet subsided. And Faramir knew she still felt she was an intruder into a life she did not deserve. He pulled her to him and placed a tender kiss on her mouth. It was a kiss that pressed his love into her, it was a kiss that thanked her for loving him back.

“Éowyn, you gave me my life,” Faramir whispered, feeling the treacherous tears making their way to his eyes, “I let myself fall into my darkness. Aragorn was nearly too late. I thought all was lost, that I would give in like my father had. And I wanted to go and be with my brother. That was what I was contemplating when you stormed into the garden that day. Whether I had strength to continue. It was you who gave me strength to persist into the next day. Then you gave me the strength to face my demons. Then you gave me the strength to share my dark secrets with others. You even gave me the strength to face my worst memory, of the moment my father nearly burned me alive.”

“You did the same for me Faramir,” Éowyn’s eyes were also filling with tears, “I did not contemplate ending it all, I rode out to do it. I kept on living only to save my brother from his own despair. Did you know that it was Éomer who called to me in my shadow dream? Then there I was, unable to die in glory like I wanted, and my brother on the way to his death. I wanted to end it so badly, and then there you were. You treated me like… like I mattered. And I could feel your love even as I doubted it. You stopped me from thinking that I was worthless. You saved me from believing that I would never find a home that gave me freedom. You saved me from being sold off either to the vilest man I’d ever encountered or to some indifferent lord for being the niece of a King. You gave me my voice Faramir, because you listened to me as much as you loved me.”

“I vow that that will never change,” Faramir looked into Éowyn’s beautiful blue eyes, the glow of twilight starting to show in the window, “I will listen to you as my most trusted advisor, because you are.”

“I vow to remind you of the depths of your strength,” Éowyn said.

“I vow to tell you every day that none in Arda could be more revered than you, my beloved slayer of the Witch King,” Faramir smiled

“I vow to heal you when your despair threatens to overpower you,” Éowyn smiled.

“I vow to make love to you under my favorite waterfall,” Faramir could feel the grin coming on his face.

“I vow to make sure that for the rest of your life, the light I see shining inside you continues to burn,” Éowyn’s eyes still contained tears, “And I vow to write you letter after letter for the six weeks we must now be apart.”

“I want you also to vow one more thing to me,” Faramir’s grin had turned serious, “That if you feel your darkness returning, you will tell me.”

“Faramir… I…” Éowyn started, Faramir grabbed her hand.

“If you tell me, I will come. But I also promise that I will not do so without thinking. I will ride to you prepared with a guard. And I will do so with the permission of my King,” Faramir looked Éowyn in the eye, “I will never forgive myself if something happens to you Éowyn. Never.”

“Then you must do the same for me,” Éowyn’s eyes contained love, but also a sternness to them, “You and I are both just at the edge of healing. I want to hear everything from you. If you do not sleep these six weeks, I want to know. Every fire dream. Every dark thought. Because I will never forgive myself if something happens to  _ you. _ ”

“I promise.” Faramir squeezed Éowyn’s hand.  
“I promise.” Éowyn replied.

They pulled each other into a tight embrace, grasping onto one another as fate conspired to pull them apart. The nagging twilight meant it was time. Éowyn had to pack and prepare for the long ride back to Edoras.

“Let me stay and help you pack,” Faramir kissed both of Éowyn’s eyelids, “To soak in every moment we have left.”

Éowyn looked up at him and nodded, “Let me change into my riding clothes.”

As Éowyn left for her closet, Faramir looked around her bedroom, then around her little apartment. His mind wandered back to the eastward looking room in the House of Healing. With the jug full of dried lavender. He thought about the day he watched Éowyn storm up to him in that garden, carrying defiance, strength, and vulnerability all together. And he thought about the night he paced outside her door, wondering if she loved him as he loved her. All of that seemed a lifetime ago, because they were memories of the times that he witnessed his life changing. Éowyn’s bedroom smelled like that lavender, and Faramir could feel love overcome him every time he caught its scent. It was her.

“What are you looking at so intently min elskede?” Éowyn was back, looking near as beautiful in riding breeches as she had dressed in her bed clothes.

“Reliving memories,” Faramir replied as Éowyn positioned herself under his arm.

“Lavender,” Éowyn smiled.

“Because I knew I loved you,” Faramir said.

“Your first token,” Éowyn said, “I still have no idea how you managed to get it.”

“It took no more than being the Steward,” Faramir said, “But it was the first time I used that power, the first time I finally accepted that I  _ was _ the Steward. That lavender meant as much to me as it did to you.”

Éowyn looked into Faramir’s eyes, then over at the lavender, and Faramir saw the flicker of an idea come into her eyes.

“Take half,” Éowyn said, “It will be reunited when we are reunited.”

Faramir placed a kiss on Éowyn’s lips. Her intuition was perfect.

“Thank you me'a en' coiamin,” Faramir whispered.

Éowyn split the lavender in the vase, and handed Faramir half. With a smile, he pulled the leather tie that Éowyn had bound in his hair and tied Éowyn’s bunch with it. Éowyn’s eyes lit up, and they shared a smile. Leather and lavender, for Faramir and Éowyn.

“One moment,” Éowyn swept from the room, returning only a short while later with a ribbon. A ribbon from her night gown. She tied Faramir’s bunch with it, fire in her eyes as she did, “To remind you of your first token of love to me, and so that when you smell this lavender, you will think on the memories we made tonight.”

Faramir could feel his heartbeat quicken, and all the sensations Éowyn had gifted him that night flooded into his memory. Lavender tied in that ribbon: so powerful was the memory it invoked that Faramir knew he would make it those six weeks. He took the gift and gently placed it into his satchel. Éowyn went to the small closet in her room, which contained a few white gowns, the mantle, and a few splendid outfits from Faramir.

“I should like to leave the fineries here min elskede,” Éowyn said.

“They will be waiting for you in the Steward’s house, with everything else that is now yours,” Faramir replied.

“And my books and healers’ supplies?” Éowyn asked.

“Already packed and sent with the baggage cart,” Faramir replied. He knew she would need them, so had sent them ahead.

Éowyn nodded and smiled, then with incredible efficiency placed the gowns on the bed, added her night gown from the dressing room, and rolled them tightly together. Faramir thought he saw the flash of gold at the center of the bundle. She tied the parcel, and was done. Faramir often forgot that Éowyn had ridden to Gondor with little, and so there was little for her to return with. She’d ridden not as the niece of a King, pampered in a litter, but as an anonymous rider. One driven to pity by the plight of a Hobbit who was cursed to be left behind, as she was. Now Éowyn was his fiancée, and she and Merry had slain Gondor’s greatest enemy save for Sauron himself. How strange the way fate worked…

An abrupt knock came upon the door, and Éomer walked into the small apartment, directing the slightest of nods toward Faramir in the process. Faramir looked at his eyes and saw the slightest pink rimming them. He knew Éomer had said his goodbyes to Lothíriel.

“You ready sister?” Éomer stood tall.

“Yes,” Éowyn picked up the small sack on the bed, “I will be out in one minute. I need my proper goodbye.”

Éomer nodded sternly, and Faramir could see a sadness effuse him. He turned and exited the apartment. Éowyn rushed into Faramir’s arms, holding him with such ferocity it nearly robbed him of his breath.

“One last week, one last memory,” Éowyn whispered, and kissed Faramir’s lips with hunger and greed, projecting her desire and her love into him. Then it was over. Éowyn pulled away, “I will write you min elskede.”

“I will wait for your letters, and promise to send my own,” Faramir said back. His own tears were on the way. “I love you so much. And will count down the moments to us being reunited. Promise me one more time, if you need me, you will tell me.”

“I promise,” Éowyn did not break her gaze, willing her promise into Faramir.

One more nod, one more kiss, and the woman who changed Faramir’s life was gone. Faramir followed her out the door, and shared a thoughtful nod with Éomer, who threw his arms around Éowyn. The golden siblings, who had changed the fate of Gondor, were heading back to Rohan.

Faramir’s feet carried him up the final level of the white city, and parked himself at the edge of the Citadel. He would look out to the west as the Rohan host faded into the distance. He was not sure how long he could last in that place, thinking about the next six weeks alone. The next six weeks without Éowyn. Would everything that happened turn out to be a dream? Faramir shuddered at the thought, and felt his own despair creep into his throat. An immense calm came over Faramir in that moment.

“I presume this will be how you announce yourself?” Faramir said as he felt Aragorn walk to his left, also watching the progress of the host. Amusement radiated between the Steward and the King.

“Your panic and despair call me as readily as mine do you,” Aragorn replied, “Six weeks is no time.”

“I worry far less for myself than I do for her,” Faramir said, feeling his own mood grow defiant, “She is strong but returns to a place that almost broke her.”

“Yet it didn’t,” Aragorn said, but both could feel his unease, understanding the culpability he still felt, “She has you, and she has hope.”

“If she needs me, I must go to her,” Faramir did not hesitate to speak those words, even though the man to his left was now his King and liege.

“I would not stop you,” Aragorn said, “In fact, we’ve already prepared for such a sortie of our Steward.”

Faramir smiled, “Thank you.”

“I know her pain as you do Faramir, and know what you two do for one another. I would not burden either of you with the knowledge that the other is in pain, and you can do nothing,” Aragorn said, and Faramir felt his despair.

“I don’t think she is going to ask,” Faramir said, bathing in Aragorn’s sadness and adding his own, “I just hope that it is because she does not need me, rather than because she is unwilling to ask.”

“Do you trust her?” Aragorn asked.

“Yes,” Faramir replied instinctively, and he realized,  _ he did _ .

“Then you will not have to worry, as she will ask you to come if she needs you,” Aragorn replied.

“A little over six weeks. That is what separates me from that fateful day meeting Frodo and Sam,” Faramir mused, “Six weeks to become a Steward, to fall in love, to witness the fall of the shadow.”

“Six weeks for life to change for everyone in Middle Earth,” Aragorn replied, “Because you chose to help two small Halflings rather than hinder them.”

Aragorn’s arm came around Faramir’s shoulder. Faramir felt that familiar warmth that had infused their relationship, and shared it. Six weeks would be endurable. Six weeks apart, then he would see Éowyn... forever. Six weeks, then a lifetime with his King and his wife to remake a waiting Gondor.

“So… what comes next?” Faramir asked.

“That is up to us,” Aragorn said.

“Then let us start.”


End file.
